HERE, THERE & ELSEWHERE. Last blast

There are two areas of difficulty on extended car-journeys. One is laundry and the other is food. On this trip, our approach has been to use Laundromats in the small towns we pass through, washing one giant load each time. It’s only clothes and hand-towels, not sheets or quilts, so we manage okay.

In India, toilets would also be a problem, but not here. There are usable facilities in most gas-stations and in fast-food joints they are normally clean. Sure, I can remember approaching the rest area in a McDonald’s when I heard one woman loudly berating another woman for making a mess on the toilet seat. To which the mess-maker replied, “I didn’t have a choice! I couldn’t see the seat!” The reason? She was so large that when she emerged from the washroom, she could barely squeeze through the door as she passed me. I remember feeling deep sympathy for all people of unusual girth, as I fled from that place.

Food, however, has been a real problem. Not for me, because I am the original fuss-free eater. My three years in boarding school taught me to eat anything short of fresh road-kill. My low-functioning nose means that I can’t tell the difference between ginger and turpentine. The same is true for Punky the Skunk too. He eats our scraps and, in addition, will snack on all the bugs and moths that Bins hunts down for him, every night, using a flashlight and a handkerchief.

But Bins and Birk behave like a pair of Top Chef judges on an unplanned road-trip. Bins wants spicy food while Birk wants bland. Bins wants Asian while Birk prefers Viking Modern. Both want everything fresh, preferably organic, preferably harvested at dawn by virgin priestesses. And both need fuelling at four-hour intervals. Since fast-food is our typical option, it’s at some anonymous burger-joint that Bins, who carries Punky around in his backpack, goes in to the restroom.

A moment later he bursts out of there, followed by a stench so powerful it blots out all reason. “Skunk!” cries someone and the restaurant empties out in seconds. We run too, forgetting our hunger and all other bodily needs. Leaving Punky behind. There’s nothing we can do about it. The smell isn’t exactly ugly. It has a herbal quality to it, with an undertow of coffee and sulphur. But it’s so strong that even the first whiff of it causes my brain to melt and drain out of my ears. We run to the car, with tears streaming from our eyes. Not just because we have to leave Punky behind but for fear we might not get away fast enough.

Later, Bins tries to explain what happened. “I’m getting ready to take a leak, but the bag is open and out he jumps. This other fellow sees him and starts to yell ...” Silence in the car for many miles. Finally Birk says, in a hoarse voice, “He’ll survive. He’ll get away. Skunks are tough.” Bins says, “I’m not!” and blows his nose noisily.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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