The beaten up
old Pontiac sputtered violently as we rolled leisurely out of our
driveway. With my mom in the passenger seat and my dad behind the
wheel, the front of the car was up with excitement for our trip to
Arizona. My brother Allan was quietly asleep next to me, and as for
my sister, Jacqueline, and youngest brother J.D.; they played quietly
in the car. I sat quietly behind my mother, still delirious of the
situation and dreading the long exhausting trip that I was to endure.
My lack of
enthusiasm was due to my late bedtime the night before. I guess I was
lucky to be a passenger in the car, and not the driver, as so I could
“snooze” as my dad urged himself to go onward towards Arizona as
he sat behind the car’s steering wheel. We had already been on the
road for three hours now, and still not a peep out of anyone, except
my youngest siblings whom were frolicking around together with their
toys in the back of the car. My dad refused to stop for food until
noon. It was 11:30, yet 30 minutes seemed like an awful long time and
my stomach had been craving something, anything, for at least an
hour. The hunger was uncontrollable, an almost eerie feeling, one you
get before riding a roller coaster, came to me. No one else seemed to
complain, so I attempted to ignore the issue by putting myself to
Over 45 minutes
had past before I was awaken so abruptly by the grasp of my dad large
hand on my shoulder. “Time for lunch!” quaintly said with a jolly
cheer hidden deep in his voice. One after another we trickled from
the car, emptying quite quickly. I took a large deep breath of what I
assumed would be fresh air. Instead, I coughed. The air wreaked of
exhaust and was dry, concentrated with dust. It was my fault I hadn’t
observed the large sign reading “Trucking Pit Sto”. The letter
“p” appeared to missing from the sign, and as I contemplated why,
I walked slowly away from the car , still “hacking” and coughing.
I was behind my family by quite a margin, so I picked up the pace, as
to catch up with them.
Upon entering, a
huge grown came over my face as my eyes filled with tears due to all
the cigarette smoke. I continued to cough, but only at the horrid
smell of diesel fuel and horrible B.O. that lurked around the
truckers as they smoked away. My mother, still extremely quiet and
holding close to her my brother and sister, gave me a look of fear
and warning. I could understand how she felt, being among such a
crowd of obese men made me feel uncomfortable too. I looked at the
menu, which appeared to be covering with ketchup and stained with a
white “goo”. No longer was I hungry, my stomach, so hungry before
and crying for food had muted itself from disturbing me any longer.
“hearty” meal, we were beck on the road again; although I didn’t
eat a morsel of food. As my stomach lingered for something to eat, I
tried to endure the bumps on the road, which appeared to be endlessly
leading us nowhere. Hopelessly trying to ignore the bumps that were
aggravating me so much, I stared outside my window to find a cemetery
of the poor bugs had begun to compile on my window. The desert was
not at all appealing and the repetitive sight of brown rocks and dead
plants made gave me a feeling of sickness and isolation. What kind of
trip was this? Certainly not one to be remembered as a wonderful
experience in my later “Golden Years” of life. Still suffering of
boredom, I rested my head on the maroon colored headrest behind m in
hopes of being able to sleep until out destination was reached.
peeled open slowly, as I noticed that I was in a world of darkness.
No longer was I in a cramped Pontiac with my head against a rough
upholestied headrest, but I was now inside a room, with cool air, and
a fresh scent of cleanliness blowing through my nose. “About time
you came around sport…”, My dad said. I had no response, but
lethargically moved to the window to find a beautiful view of Phoenix
outside. The sight of the city gave me a sense of relief and comfort.
Anything to be out of the car and off the road. Our vacation had
finally started. Despite all of my complaining, I was in store for a
good time while I was in Arizona.
A MemorableExperienceEssay, ResearchPaper A Truly MemorableExperience It was like any other Friday at my house ... food, a flashlight, and most importantly my knife. M My knife was the nothing ... had caught me. They informed the police that I might be around ...
... Dickinson Essay, ResearchPaperMy Life Closed Twice Before Its Close My life closed ... know this from first hand experience; the speaker can tell ... and tolerance of whatever might happen in the recurrent ... poem is not nearly as memorable as Stevens’ poem, though ...
Dickinson Essay, ResearchPaperMy Life Closed Twice Before Its ... know this from first hand experience; the speaker can tellby the ... acceptance and tolerance of whatever might happen in therecurrent use ... poem is not nearly as memorable as Stevens poem, though ...
My Oedipus Complex Essay, ResearchPaper The story ?My Oedipus Complex? by Frank O?Connor ... never quiet. One of his mostmemorable fits occurred, again, while Rodney ... others is because of the experiences I brought to it. Had I never ...
How To Interview Essay, ResearchPaper How to interview ... inputs (Beach, 1982). Memorizing lists of principals and ... quiet (Barone, 1995). In myexperiences of interviewing, I have ... to Barone (1995), experiences , most interviews are arranged by telephone ...