Posted by: Josey | September 2, 2008

He Rode His Scooter from Chicago to New York City (Part One)

by Josey Miller

It was around noon on a Wednesday, and I was sitting at my desk in my Fashion District office when my cell phone flashed. Text message from Brian: “On my way to New York!”

Huh?

Cool, but…

Huh?

Within an hour my landline rang. It was my dad and, based on the tone of his voice, he was none too pleased.

“Have you heard from your brother?”

“He just texted me that he’s on his way here, in fact. I had no idea he was coming to visit—I’m excited. Do you know when his flight arrives?”

“Flight? I wish. Your brother was supposed to have dinner with me and your mother on Monday night. That afternoon he canceled, saying he was going camping in Wisconsin with a friend instead. But he just called me from Pittsburgh.”

“Pittsburgh? Um, you lost me.”

“Apparently his camping trip was canceled so he decided to ride his scooter—his scooter!—to New York. And now he’s in Pittsburgh.”

“Ooooooooookay,” I said, frankly still baffled. “Well, I guess I should give him a call.”

So we hung up and I dialed Brian’s cell phone number.

“Hey, Bri! It’s your sister. Dad said you’re riding your scooter to New York and that you’re in Pittsburgh?”

“Yeah. Okay if I stay with you this weekend?” (My brother is a man of few words.)

“Of course, but I’ve driven to Pittsburgh before, and it’s only about six or seven hours. You should be here by tonight!”

“My scooter only goes around 45 miles per hour, so I’m not allowed to take highways. I’ll be there on Saturday around eight.”

“Ooooooooookay.”

Saturday morning at 1pm, he called. Right on schedule.

“I’m in Edison, New Jersey! I’m making really good time, so I should be in around 6!”

“Brian, isn’t Edison right outside the city?”

I scrambled for my laptop.

“Brian, Yahoo! Maps says you’re 45 minutes away.”

“I told you. I can’t take highways. And I’m not sure which of the bridges and tunnels allow scooters. Trust me. I’ll be in around 6.”

And within fifteen minutes of 6pm, my doorman called.

“There’s a young man down here. He says he’s your brother?”

“Yep, send him up!”

And my brother knocked on my door, surrounded by a near-visible dust cloud a la Pigpen of Peanuts, hair like greasy, black cotton candy and stinking to high hell.

“Hey, Kerouac!” I greeted him, held my breath and leaned in for a hug. Jeff—whose family is relatively normal—just stood there shaking his head in disgust, but also awe.

(To be continued.)

Read part two here.

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