THE STATES MIX STARTS SKIPPING. WELCOME TO THE H-H-H-H-HOTEL Cal-cal-cal-cal . . . “It’s broken,” I tell Roland. “We have to listen to something else.” “Wah!” he cries. “I’ll make a new States Mix when we get home, okay?” We’re driving around now, listening to music, killing time, the Odyssey cruising south on 208, toward Gardiner. I’d stopped at Dressel Farms, where the Port-o-Potty is still operational, and took a leak. Was leaving two children unattended in a locked automobile for three full minutes a violation of federal, state, and local law? I don’t know, but I couldn’t take them with me, nor was holding it an option. It was Port-o-Potty or empty Poland Spring bottle; should I have whipped it out in the minivan? I think not. “Wah!” “If it’s broken, it’s broken. There’s nothing I can do.” Here’s my plan for the rest of the day: When we get to the light at Ireland Corners, I’ll bang a left on 44/55, and another left on Ohioville, just before the Thruway overpass, and take that to 299, thus completing a big backroads circle—then head over to Pasquale’s, a souped–up pizza joint at Cherry Hill Plaza, near Meg’s house.
