The Scintilla Project, Day 4. You're Late.

Day 4.  Write about a thing that happened to you while you were using transportation; anything from your first school bus ride, to a train or plane, to being in the backseat of the car on a family road trip.

For two weeks every summer, my troop made the long trek north to Floodwood, a Boy Scout camp in upstate New York.  I looked forward to it every year - vibrant nature, gigantic, massively unsafe fires, and the unmitigated violence only teenage boys could inflict upon one another in our never-ending quest for merit badges.  It was a vital element in shaping the unstable, mildly pyrophilic man I am today.

Even the trip up was a ritual.  We gathered in the parking lot of our town's middle school, parents gleefully releasing sullen boys in earth-toned uniforms and absurdly bulky metal-framed packs and speeding off to engage in whatever hedonistic pleasures they took in the absence of their children.  We would pile our gear into the station wagons and SUVs of our Scoutmasters - Mr. Rodriguez, Mr. Cottone, that other guy whose name I can't remember, and my father.

There was an unspoken challenge amongst the adults.  A quiet pride in completing the journey before the others, in pulling into that flattened dirt patch that served as Floodwood's parking lot first.  And my father had never settled for anything less than victory.

But this year, one of our number was late.  It was one of the Adams, I think, but I don't care enough to remember properly.  What mattered was that we were delayed.  Mr. Rodriguez left first, waving cheerfully to Dad as he pulled out of the Ramapo Ridge parking lot.  Mr. Cottone and Mr. Other Guy followed soon after.

Fifteen minutes went by.  A half hour.  My father stood like stone, his face never betraying the mounting frustration I knew was brewing behind those engineer's bifocals.

Finally, nearly an hour later, Adam arrived.  His mother kissed him sweetly on the cheek as we loaded his pack in the back with the rest of them, and all of us joined in waving to his mother as she left.

"Get in the car," Dad barked the instant she was out of view, his voice thick with accent and urgency.  There were too many of us to seat properly.  "Raoul, get in the back."

I climbed into the back with the packs and sleeping bags and dinner kits as my friends filed into their seats.  "Buckle up," my father growled.  "We're doing this."

The Range Rover lurched into high gear.  I was immediately plastered against the back window, assaulted by the collapse of the carefully stacked bags, canteens and compasses slapping me like the jocks in the locker room.  I could hear the tires squeal as Dad beelined for the highway.

He drove like a warrior poet.  He had tasked me with keeping an eye out for cops; I spent the trip peering out the back window, watching in wonderment the cars we passed as he danced from lane to lane.  The wide-eyed shock of drivers passed at ninety miles an hour, the fury of motorists cut off.  I saw them all in their kaleidoscopic glory.

No bathroom breaks, no food but what we had thought to bring with us.  We were on a mission, and before long, we reached the shitty, unfinished dirt roads leading to the camp.  And still, my father did not slow.  My little compartment was havoc; I'd long since given up trying to keep things from hitting me in the head.  Gravel spat from beneath us; we left billowing clouds of dust in our wake.

I could feel my stomach float as we crested a hill, hear my compatriots cheer as our dragon took flight.  I am told that that was the instant we spied Mr. Rodriguez' crappy station wagon before us.  I am also told, by those in Mr. Rodriguez' car, that in that moment, he looked in his rear view mirror with astonishment in his eyes and reverence in his whisper: "Holy shit, it's Caes."

My teeth rattled as we hit the dirt.  I could hear the engine roar as my father made his final push, feel myself slide around in the back like a solitary chicken nugget in an empty stomach as he went off-road to pass his final competitor.

I could have sworn we just slid into the parking spot.  I could hear car doors open and shut as I shook off the last of the daze; the hatch-back swung out to reveal my carmates, laughing and hungry and eager to begin our trip.  And as I clambered out the back to squint at the late New York sunlight, I could hear my father say words to Mr. Rodriguez, words I remember and treasure to this day.

"You're late."