Page 28

Fifteen

“T he engagement numbers aren’t exactly where we need them to be.” Roz delivers this news on Day Five with the grim calm of a surgeon after breakfast. Bad news: the cancer has spread, and we’ll have to cut off your head.

While most of the team makes excited noises and thumb furiously on their phones, I scribble ideas on an oversize sticky note. I would give my kingdom for a whiteboard and a marker, but I am engaged. On point. The best team player ever.

As his fake travel buddy, I am forcibly perched on the southernmost tip of the bench seat. His toes prod my hip, seeking new conquests. I inch my troops north, exerting a slow, steady pressure on his marauding digits. I gain two inches of seat.

Most of the content on the TripFriendz channels so far goes something like this:

Sunshine-filled pics of Berta’s interior. She looks chic and boho.

Stunning action shots of Mexican wildlife, looking primal and gorgeous. A black-tailed jackrabbit snapped by Ozzy in midflight as we thunder past. Turkey vultures frozen in time, ospreys wheeling, a desert iguana sunbathing on a rock. Once, a rattlesnake lurking near the highway’s edge.

Gorgeous shots of Ozzy in activewear. Surfing on top of the van. Flashing his trademark grin at the camera. He high-fives our audience. Gives them a thumbs-up. He lounges in the bed. Pulls back the curtains. Mans the wheel while snapping endless beautiful photographs. Who knew he could multitask?

There is one picture of me. It’s too close. My hair is messy, my eyes half-closed. My bra strap is exposed—and it’s not one of those cute, lacy numbers. Someone tagged it #BadPictureMonday.

It’s a tough audience. Someone accuses us of appropriating van life for nefarious corporate purposes (probably true).

More people comment on our current location.

TripFriendz has shared a live map with a cute little VW Vanagon booking it down the peninsula.

A weather psychic predicts a hurricane is headed our way.

Tarantulas are mentioned. The possibility of bandits (survey says: Ozzy will either kick their asses or trade me for a free pass).

Whether the van’s stationary periods are due to Ozzy and I having van-rocking sex or traveler’s diarrhea.

The odds are three to one in favor of parasites.

I flip through the posts again. Reread the comments.

We are boring people.

Someone suggests we make a sex tape. Feedback noted.

“So what can we do differently today?” As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not a social media expert. I’m an engineer. I can troubleshoot an Instagram bug, but I don’t know why people spend hours watching a puppy reel.

Ozzy may be asleep now. I debate poking him in the ribs and decide against it.

“The quality of our posts isn’t where we need to be.”

“We should be more organic,” someone chimes in. Tim? Thom? He greeted me today with a “’Sup” and introduced himself, even though we’d been introduced in Tijuana. There is justice in the fact that neither of us can remember each other’s name.

“Humor,” Lore offers. “We could do funny behind-the-scenes content.”

Rosie waves her hand wildly. Pick me! “Inspirational quotes about travel!”

Roz grimaces. “ Good Housekeeping magazine ran an article on those last year.” Translation: even my grandmother can do better than that.

Beside me, Ozzy has expired from boredom.

“Let’s hit the road,” Thom suggests. “Think on it.” He’s clearly hoping that the inspiration fairy will visit.

Ozzy comes alive, and we race each other outside to Berta.

As he has the obvious advantage with his strong legs and superior lung power, I award myself a handicap and pretend to fall, throwing my arms out with a loud “Shizzballs!” Ozzy pivots gracefully and puts his hands out to catch me.

Sucker. I duck under his arm and lunge for the driver’s seat.

He won’t pry me out of there when the cameras are rolling as he has his family-friendly image to maintain.

“You cheated.”

He sounds so shocked.

“I think on my feet.”

“You pretended to fall over !”

“And you should have let me face-plant.” I shrug. “It’s not my fault you’re a decent person.”

He tries to decide if that’s a compliment or an insult and then gives up. “Surfer, Shark, Wave?”

Now it’s my turn to look confused. It’s a very brief moment of confusion, though, because Ozzy is happy to explain at length about the surfer version of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

The media team films away as he demonstrates the positions (hands steepled on his gorgeous head for shark, wavy horizontal hands for wave, and the classic surfer pose).

We draw the first two times, our waves battering each other, but on our third go, my shark devours his surfer.

“Loser,” I crow.

I regret my victory as soon as I inch us out of the parking lot and onto the road. I’ve forgotten just how anxious driving makes me. When I’m behind the wheel, there are infinite possibilities for catastrophes. Fender benders. Complete immolation on Highway 1. Destruction of company property.

After an hour on the road, however, I revise my concern level downward.

The van cannot go faster than forty miles per hour.

It’s disappointing that speeding isn’t an option, particularly when the social media team passes us in their air-conditioned, fuel-efficient vehicle.

Roz has found a motorcycle somewhere, and Rosie rides pillion behind her, arms wrapped around her waist. She may be in love.

“Our van is a slug,” Ozzy complains.

I give him the evil eye. “Don’t be mean to Berta.”

I ease us around a tight bend and mentally high-five myself for my caution. A cow stares back at me from the center of the road. I toot the horn. The cow refuses to budge. Ozzy snaps a photo.

“Berta?”

Don’t be offended he forgot your name, Berta.

“I’d like to reintroduce Berta to you.” I pat the dashboard. “She’s a classic girl who enjoys vintage clothes, life in the slow lane, and starring as a Pinterest pinup gal.”

Ozzy pretends to shake an imaginary hand. “Enchanted.” He cocks his head, listening intently. “You’re a Scorpio! Me, too! We have so much in common.”

A pause.

Apparently, our van is talking back.

Ozzy nods. “You totally should have a topaz-studded license plate.”

“Are you done?”

“What’s that? We should plan your birthday party?” He looks at me. “Berta wants a really big party with a bouncy house.”

“It’s June.”

“October will be here before we know it! And reservations for the cool stuff book up fast.”

I have to stop myself from nodding in agreement. I am not planning an imaginary birthday party for a car. By October I will be the chief play officer and will have forgotten all about this road trip from hell. Berta will be someone else’s van by then, and Ozzy will have moved on.

“I need to get her flowers.” Ozzy throws himself backward dramatically. The seat squeaks.

We trundle down the highway that connects Tijuana to San Felipe.

My map is overkill, as there is only the one road, an asphalt serpent that winds steadily south, stretching from last night’s winery all the way down to Cabo.

Desert stretches away on one side of us and the Sea of Cortez on the other.

Mountains hem us in. Heat rises off the sand, the salt flats.

We are driving into the center of the earth, and I am on fire.

Today’s plan is:

Drive to San Felipe.

Fish for our dinner (because TripFriendz is both cheap and opportunistic).

Ride ATVs around the famous sand dunes at sunset.

Eat our catch of the day at a restaurant on the Malecón that has been bribed/paid to cook said fish.

My algorithm may have spit out a list of destinations, but the details are 100 percent generated by TripFriendz’s marketing team.

It’s super-hot in the van. We roll the windows down to try to cool off.

This morning my white shorts with their cute little lobster print seemed like a fun idea, as had the gingham-checked blouse tied at my stomach.

Now I’d embrace public nudity. When I adjust the visor to try to cut the sun’s glare, Ozzy’s gaze is glued to the bare strip where my blouse stops and my shorts begin.

I drive barefoot, hair up. I dressed for Cannes, for a yacht and for poolside service.

Instead, I am being spit roasted like a rotisserie chicken.

Ozzy has also half dressed for a day on the water. His green board shorts hang low on his hips, revealing a band of black boxer briefs. His T-shirt is tossed on the console between us. He is barefoot. He slouches in his seat, all golden-skinned and godly.

“My latest post has two hundred likes,” he announces.

“Surf bunnies.”

“Wow. You’re mean. They like me for my personality.”

I’m sure they do.

Ozzy scrolls, taps, flicks an image up. Down. He writes an entire novel and peppers it with wave emoticons.

“You’re not winning this job.”

He puffs out his cheeks. Exhales roughly. “You are so impossible,” he growls. For once, he’s not smiling.

I shrug. We lapse into sullen silence. I sweat through my blouse.

Eventually, he starts yelling out directions from the map app on his phone.

He spurns my printouts (“Antediluvian, Fyffe,” he scoffs, so when our cell phone service drops twenty minutes later, I make him eat his words).

I’m still surprised, however, when Berta rolls to a gentle, exhausted, spluttering stop in the middle of nowhere. We are not in Kansas anymore.

Clumps of heavily branched cacti rise ten, thirty, maybe fifty feet into the sky. They form a forest of upside-down, lumpy octopuses.

“Your navigational skills are subpar,” I accuse.

He mock-gasps. “You thought I wanted to go San Felipe?”

“The next stop on our itinerary?” I one-up his theatrics. “Why, yes! I did think that was where we were headed. Instead, we’re…”

“Somewhere better.” He’s already opening the door. His feet hit the sand. The puff of dust that floats my way is intentional. “Come on. We don’t need that map.”