"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Are we there yet?"
"No."
"Now?"
"No."
"Now?"
"For goodness sakes!" growls Dad. "Will you stop it!"
I shrug. "Alright," i say. "Don't get your knickers in a knot."
We've been in the car for two days now. Mom and Dad are at the breaking point.
Don't get me wrong. I don't want them to get mad at me -- it just happens.
Like it or not, when you go on a long car trip, there are times when you just have to stop.
And my parents do not like it.
But what's the alternative?
Do they want me to starve to death? To wet my pants? To be sick all over the backseat?
I think any of these would be a lot more annoying and inconvenient than the few stops it takes to prevent them. I'm actually doing them a favor.
Mom and Dad should save their energy for really annoying things. Like the fly that has been buzzing around in the car for the last half hour. It's driving me crazy. I'm going to do us all a big favor. I'm going to get rid of it.
I roll down the window. The fly jumps away.
It's hiding, just waiting for me to roll the window back up again.
I have to lure it out.
I start doing my best fly-call.
"Bzzz! Bzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzzzz!"
Still no fly. Have to do it louder.
"BZZZZ! BZZZZ! BZZZZZZZ! "
"Andy!" yells Dad. "I can't concentrate with you making that stupid noise. Do you want us to have an accident? Do you want us all to get killed?"
I hate it when Dad asks dumb questions like that. What does he expect me to say?
"Yes, Dad, i want us to have an accident. I want us all to get killed."
But I don't say that. It might cause Dad to have an accident. We might all get killed.
"Alright, Dad," I say instead. "Don't get your knickers in a knot!"
"And stop telling me not to get my knickers in a knot!" he explodes.
"Okay," I say. "Don't get your trousers in a twist. "
Dad hunches over the steering wheel. His knuckles whiten. Tiny drops of perspiration appear on the back of his neck.
He knows she is been outsmarted once again. It must be frustrating for him to have a son as clever as me. It must be hard knowing that he can never win.
The fly lazily cruises in front of my eyes. It's asking for trouble. Well, it's come to the right man.
I once sorry movie where the door of an airplane opened in midair and everybody was sucked out by the vacuum it created. I don't need a vacuum quite that powerful, but maybe if I open and close the door, I'll be able to create one strong enough to suck the fly out.
I squeeze the door handle as carefully and slowly as I can so that it doesn't make any noise. I swing it open, then shut.
Open, shut.
Open, shut.
"What do you think you're doing?" screams Dad.
"I'm creating a vacuum," I say.
"What?"
"A vacuum! I'm trying to get a fly out of the car."
"Shut the door! And keep it shut!" shouts Dad. "I'm warning you. If you don't behave yourself, I'll stop the car and you can get out and walk. Do you understand?"
"But, Dad. . . " I say.
"No buts! Do you understand?"
"Yes Dad."
Dad's knuckles are really white now. He's gripping the steering wheel so hard that his bones are practically breaking through his skin.
I hear a buzz. It's coming from behind me. The vacuum didn't work. I turn around but I can't see the fly. Hold on --- the noise is coming from outside.
I undo my seat belt and kneel on the seat to get a better view.
There's this crazy-looking guy riding an old Harley. He's got a long red beard, a black bowl-shaped helmet, and a pair of old- fashioned plastic riding goggles. They make him look like a fly. And his motorcycle sounds like one. Only much louder.
Suddenly the fly shoots across the window.
Showdown time!
I try to cup it in my left hand and hook it out of the window.
That's my plan, anyway.
But the fly has other ideas. It skates across the window to the far corner. And then back again. I'm chasing the fly back and forth across the window when I notice that the biker is making hand signals.
He thinks I'm waving to him!
I wave.
He waves back.
I wave again.
He waves back again.
We're best friends now.
"Stop waving," says Dad. "Sit down and put your seat belt back on."
"But he waved first," I say.
"Don't annoy bikers," says Dad. "I don't want any trouble."
"I'm not annoying him –– I was just being friendly."
"Sit down!"
"Okay, okay, don't get your knickers in a knot."
I give one last wave to Bike-man, but he's pulling into a gas station and doesn't see me.
I feel like I've lost my best friend.
I notice a movement out of the corner of my eye.
I look up. The fly is on the roof. It's taunting me. It buzzes again.
"Andy," says Dad, "you're pushing your luck!"
"It wasn't me," Isay. "It was the fly!"
I have to get rid of this fly. And quickly. Before it gets rid of me.
I reach up and try to cup it with my hand.
It jumps to the left.
I try again.
It jumps to the right and then heads toward the front windshield, daring me to come after it.
I unbuckle my seat belt and dive into the front seat. I catch the fly in midair.
"HOWZAT?" I yell.
I'm lying with my head in Mom's lap and my legs all over the steering wheel.
Dad slams the brakes on. The car lurches forward.
"Get out!" he says.
"But it's not my fault," I say. "It was the fly."
"I don't care who's fault it was," he says.
"Out!"
"But look!"
I open my hand to show Dad the fly and prove that I'm not lying, but my hand is empty. It must have swerved at the last minute. Outsmarted by a fly! I hate that.
"Out," says Dad.
Surely he can't be serious.
"I'm sorry, Dad. . . . I was just trying to get the fly out of the car. . . . in case it caused an accident. . ."
"You're the only one who is going to cause an accident, " he says. "Out."
"Mom?" I say. "Are you going to let him do this?"
"It's for your own good," she says. You've got to learn."
I open the door.
"You'll be sorry," I say, "when you come back and find my bones being picked clean by vultures."
"There are no vultures in Australia."
"Kookaburras then."
"Shut the door ", says Dad. "You're letting the hot air in."
There's no resonsing with him.