My Dad was in the Navy, and one night they flew him back from Iceland on a military plane that bumped and bobbed so much that he swore he would never—ever—fly again.
He kept that promise. Which means I have the United States Navy to blame for an entire childhood of vacations stuffed in the back seat of my dad’s car, watching him smoke cigarettes like they were bullets being fed into a machine gun and listening to the sound of his muttered cursing mixing in with the wet rattle of his 5,000-ounce Diet Coke.
My dad didn’t like rest stops and he actively hated South of the Border, the mother of all rest-stops, which sold sombreros and novelty t-shirts to people who would overpay and then never wear them again. (I can only imagine what he’d think of Buc-ee’s, the new, gentrified South of the Border, but I think he’d probably be against it.)
He was also against hotels. After all, why waste money on a night of sleep when you can electrify your brain with enough nicotine and caffeine to vibrate a herd of cattle through space-time? I have memories of our trips down from South Jersey to North Carolina, or Myrtle Beach, or even Disney World, done in one long drive, only stopping for gas or bathroom breaks, with my father leaned forward in the driver’s seat, his head pushing past the steering wheel, determined to get us there without paying $49 for a Howard Johnson’s.
His car had a tape player, but he didn’t have many cassettes. Our drive to Disney was soundtracked with Billy Joel’s Innocent Man on a continuous loop. Every now and then, I’ll hear a deep cut from that album—“Careless Talk”, maybe, or “Christie Lee”—and I’ll be transported back to his car, somewhere on I-95, reading Mad Magazine, and wondering, “Why, oh God, why, couldn’t we have flown?!”
I’m an adult now, and, man, do the habits of your youth stay with you whether you liked them or not. As a comedian, I’m asked to head out all over the country to tell jokes to people. But, as my father’s son, and also being a complete idiot, I will do every single thing in my power to drive to those places rather than fly.
It’s not even that I’m afraid of flying! I’ll just do anything to avoid the hassle of flying. Maybe I would feel differently if the closest airport to me wasn’t Philadelphia International, whose theme is, apparently, “Rocky, but every character is Paulie.”
Either way, over the course of my career, I have driven, like my father before me, long-haul trucker miles into and out of South Jersey.
For all the pain of those decisions, there is one aspect that I particularly enjoy: Those moments, when you’re returning from a long trip, when you start seen to the signs that you’re almost back home to South Jersey.
For me, those signs are:
When the Drivers Stop Being Polite
You get a sense of how the other people feel about their lives by how they drive, and in Jersey that sense is “The only thing I care less about than my own life is your life.” The first time I’m aggressively tailgated even though I’m doing 80 in the middle lane or I’m honked at for not hitting the gas within .05 microseconds of the light turning green, I think to myself… I’m home.
Named Rest Stops
Did you know in other states that the names of their rest stops are almost always just “rest stop?” I call that a lack of culture, and worse, a lack of appreciation of great people like Clara Barton, Molly Pitcher or Jon Bon Jovi! How do people in other states even know if they’ve accomplished something without having a named rest stop to tell them?
Jug Handles
It would be rude and reductive to call people in other places barbarians, but honestly, what other name fits for people who think you should turn left by, you know, actually turning left? Our state understands that the only logical way for someone to turn left is to turn right first.
Wawa
In recent years, Wawa has grown, sending stores further north, west and south, but it’s still the No. 1 indicator that I’m back home, where things are sane. Once you’ve gotten used to Wawa, other convenience stores simply can’t measure up. It’s like the people of South Jersey have all been given iPhones, while the sad people in the Kum & Go or Speedway states are Zach Morris in Saved by the Bell, talking on cell phones the size of cinder blocks. When I’m away from home, I miss my wife and kids, but when I get back to Jersey, Wawa is the first thing I hug.
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Published and copyrighted in South Jersey Magazine, Volume 21, Issue 7 (October 2024)
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