Potholes of Restlessness
I’m in the backseat, slouched like a washed-up detective who missed his final clue. My daughter-in-law’s at the wheel—cool, collected, caffeinated. She’s been driving since we peeled out of town.
Meanwhile, I’m a 200-pound slab of human beef trying to catch some shut-eye.
Why? Because I stayed up till 6 A.M. like a man on the run from responsibility—figured I’d crash hard this morning before we hit the road. But sleep? Nah. Sleep stood me up like a cheap date. My phone kept detonating with notifications like it was strapped with digital TNT. So I turned it off. Peace at last.
Then my brain, that traitorous little voice, whispered, What if one of the kids needs you?
Back on it went. Boom. Boom. Boom. The notification barrage resumed like artillery fire in the trenches of my sanity.
Now I’m in a half-sleep coma, jerking awake every time the car hits another pothole. And Illinois roads? Please. I’ve had smoother rides on a bucking bronco during a hurricane. At this point, I think the Mars Rover has it easier.
So, I’m wide awake.
“Kaylee, you want me to drive?”
She doesn’t even flinch. “No, I’m fine.”
From the front seat, Vinnie chuckles like he’s watching a live comedy special. “That’s the power of a triple-shot Starbucks, Dad!”
I raise an eyebrow. Here’s to caffeine, cratered highways, and the Gulf Coast crawling closer like a promise—or a threat.
I’m not sure if I’ll make it there rested. But I’ll make it.
God help the next pothole.
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