When in a single weekend you find out that the IRS is garnishing your wages and that your new guy, who said he was going to Poland, actually went to Uzbekistan and got married for money, what’s there to do but skip town for a while?
We picked them up at 6 PM in Hilary’s already overpacked 1997 Honda Civic, gibbering with the giddy excitement that precedes most cross-country trips. But after an hour of unabashed gossiping about boys, we didn’t have all that much to say to one another. The car stayed mostly silent until we got to Saint Louis, where we met up with Mahjongg bassist and electronics wizard Hunter Husar–who’s staying there with his mother for a while, studying for the GRE–just long enough to throw back some disgusting pina coladas.
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After agreeing to abide, we drove around looking for the hot springs rumored to be about a half mile’s hike away. Carrying beach towels, a video camera, and a bottle of eight-year-old whiskey, we traipsed through the woods like we were at Disneyland, hoping to find our magical destination before sundown. We never did. But we did find something almost as good: a group of teenagers riding skateboards in the park who got us high behind the library. That night we made elaborate headdresses out of beads and feathers we’d picked up in Santa Fe.
