‘We won’t make it, Jackson,’ Helen said. ‘slow down. I don’t want to do a thelma and louise off one of these turns.’ The wind tussled Helen’s hair, which was black and huge and had a personality all its own. I needed a girl with hair like this sitting shotgun to pull off the convertible shtick.
The radio momentarily gripped a frequency and we were rocking to Lawrence Welk. Out in the boondocks you had to take what you could get.
‘Tell me again what you’ve heard about this place,’ I said to the back seat.
‘It’s a novelty service station,’ Monty explained. ‘A giant top hat.’
‘But you’ve never been there?’
‘Never.’ This was Monty’s brainchild. Let’s do 4:20 at Mad Hatters. It would be trippy, man… Monty had spent the last two days living on Peeps and Vicodin. Excessive glucose had damaged his brain. But somehow he had talked us into this mission and now my friends were salivating for Mad Hatters. They expected me to get them there before the carriage turned into a pumpkin.
We sped by Milepost 293. There was too much road in front of us and not enough time.
Rabble Rouser 