“Have you ever fired a gun before?” Alex asked.
I’d never seen a gun discharged before, let alone held one and unleashed its force.
Hesitantly, I accepted the invitation to head back to the range and fire a few rounds once I reached my cousin Rachel and her husband Alex’s house just south of Detroit. I was to spend the night there before continuing on to Boston the next day. In six hours, I’d be bustin’ caps, as the kids like to say.
That thought wasn’t really on my mind, though, as I began my 3 day 1,400 mile journey from Chicago to Presque Isle. I was more worried about the canvas-covered load of furniture and possessions that was in the truck bed of the Ford F-150 I was driving. I had about 19 bungee cords securing the tarp, so I figured my coffee tables and Rubbermaid containers would be ok. The important stuff I had packed in the cab anyways. And boy was it full.
I couldn’t see out my back window. Laundry baskets full of books, knickknacks, neon beer signs, and bobble heads were all I could see in my rear view. The middle console was overflowing with beverage bottles, beef jerky and Bob Seger CD’s. The floor in front of the passenger seat was lined with pillows, my valuable devices, and an overnight bag for the trip. And riding shotgun, was a good friend: my record player.
I feel that music is a crucial part of any drive over 20 minutes, let alone 3 days. I was so busy packing and preparing the week leading up that I didn’t get to create a road trip playlist. I felt my inanimate wood-encased copilot would inexplicably provide me with musical grooves, like Castaway’s Wilson.
I relied on my 1,200 song shuffle, local radio and Bob Seger to get me through the journey. And an on point CD burned for me by one of the most reputable CD burners in the country: Jimmy Tardella.
With Jimmy’s CD in hand, I turned onto the Stevenson Expressway and headed for downtown Chicago one last time. As I popped the disc in, I was greeted with the tone-setter for my entire trip. An incredible song I may have heard in a background somewhere years before, but now was etched eternally into my memory. It was “Life in a Northern Town” by Dream Academy.
With the booming, epic African style chants of the song like a strong wind in my sails, I bid the skyline adieu and turned south onto the Eisenhower Expressway. Thank goodness the song was only 4:17 long, because when I passed Sox Park (U.S. Cellular Field, Comiskey, whatever you want to call it) I had another song on my mind, and cued up on my iPod.
Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, goodbye.
So on to Indiana.
Can you guess what my favorite thing to do in Indiana is?
Drive through it.
That’s not necessarily a knock on the Crossroads state’s vanilla makeup, as much as it is an excuse to listen to John Cougar Mellencamp for hours on end. Mellencamp capsulates the sound of Indiana so much, that he makes the passing cornfields and high school basketball towns come alive with small-town compassion, Hoosier-ripe color, and middle-America charm.
Then it was Michigan, birthplace of the automobile, and much more importantly, Bob Seger. Right after beginning my Seger marathon through Michigan, it began to rain. Uh oh. I could barely see my backload in the side-view mirrors, so I panicked about water leaking through. I pulled over at a rest stop near New Buffalo and checked the tarp.
It was holding strong, but was fraying at the back. All that was taking water was a barstool, a couple of end tables, and a bag of laundry hangers. I could make it 3 more hours to Detroit, but I’d surely need more protection for my backside before hitting the road in the morning.
So I arrived at my cousin’s in dire need of some rest and a new tarp. Thank the Lord, Mr. Ford, and Polish hospitality, that I would find both in Rockwood, MI.
“Oh yeah, we have a tarp. How big?” Rachel asked as I arrived at her house around 7:00pm. She had a couple to choose from. I feel like everyone in Michigan has any automotive part, attachment, or accessory you could ever need right in their own garage. There must be some Michigan law or tax credit stating that you must spend a minimum of $1,000 in the automotive department each year.
So we shored up the tarp, and Alex showed me his collection of guns. As any gracious gun lover would, he let me pick my weapon. I chose a 357 revolver, an AR-15 rifle and a twelve-gauge shotgun.
We grabbed some ear protection and piled into a rickety old jeep and drove 200 yards into the woods behind their house. It was a 5mph ride, with wet tree-branches slapping the windows; navigating a cramped and bumpy pathway, about to unleash some wrath, it felt like I was in Jurassic Park.
As I absorbed the kickback from the three weapons, I felt what great force I was expelling. I had no idea guns had such a mighty recoil. Yet I barely saw a mark where my bullets landed. I knew what power I was releasing, but no carnage was created. That must be what it’s like for first time firer’s who really don’t know what they’re dealing with. Thank the Lord I was firing at a piece of rotting wood in a Michigan forest, and not some other scenario.
After that excitement, we headed into Detroit for dinner. Rachel had picked out an outstanding restaurant with a narrowly pleasant menu. It was called the Green Dot Stables, and they serve nothing but sliders and sides. It was terrific. If Homer Simpson ever ate their, he’d surely give it nine thumbs up. I had a Reuben slider, a gyro slider, a Detroit Coney slider, a mystery meat slider. They were all terrific. Mmm mm.
With a wonderful night of hospitality under my pillow, I saddled up my bags and began my 12-hour, 5-state drive to Boston, where I’d be staying the night with an old high school pal, and more recently, a man the Thai have dubbed, “The Blue Jean Brother of the King of Siam.”
Jake Berent 
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