Sh*t My Dad Says by Justin Halpern Page A

interaction my crotch had with Stacy’s hand was welcome.
    A couple hours later, we pulled up to our hotel in Rosarito and checked into our dingy room, which contained only one bed, a bathroom, and three different paintings of a large-breasted Mexican woman being carried off by a Spanish conquistador. We immediately started taking shots of tequila from the bottle we had purchased at the hotel’s gift shop. I went into the bathroom and put one condom in my sock and one in my baseball hat, just in case Stacy and I didn’t make it back to the hotel room. I threw some water on my face, patted my hair into place, and brushed my teeth.
    When I came out of the bathroom, all three of Stacy’s friends were crowded around her, and she was curled up in a ball on the floor, crying hysterically.
    “I miss Peter! I can’t believe we’re fucking broken up!” Stacy sobbed as her friends tried to calm her down.
    Then Stacy got up, ran past me to the bathroom, and vomited in the toilet. For the next day and a half, Stacy sat in the hotel room with her friends, bawling and rehashing every detail of the breakup. A couple times I went out to a bar by myself, stood around for an hour, talked to no one, then went back to our room, which still reeked of vomit.
    On Saturday afternoon, we piled into the Blazer and drove silently back up the coast to the U.S.–Mexico border. Stacy sat next to me the entire time, sleeping. As we crossed the border, I turned my cell phone back on, since I hadn’t had reception in Mexico. It began buzzing to indicate that I had new messages. As I punched in my voice mail access code, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to help my dad with the garden.
    “You have four new messages,” the robotic voice declared. I was half expecting it to add, “You are so fucked.”
    The first message played. “Son, it’s Dad, I need you to pick up something from the Home Depot before you come over. Call me back.”
    “Next message,” the robotic voice mail alerted me as I began to feel nauseous.
    “Son, where the fuck are you? I said to be over at four, right? It’s four-ten. Call me.”
    The next message contained just a few moments of silence, and then the sound of hanging up. I felt a little relieved. Maybe he was over it by now.
    “Next message, received today at three-thirty P.M,” said the robot.
    “WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON? I stopped by your place and your roommate said you’re in Mexico! Are you in fucking Mexico?! CALL ME!”
    I started sweating and couldn’t keep my legs still, which was unfortunate, seeing as we were just about to drive through the border patrol inspection. The officer waved us through even though I’m pretty sure I looked like I was sitting on about two thousand pounds of cocaine and hiding a half dozen illegal aliens in our trunk.
    Once we were across the border, Stacy’s friend pulled over at the first exit.
    “I am totally fiending for some Jack in the Box,” she said.
    “No. I need to go home right now,” I snapped, my voice ascending to a note I hope no woman ever hears out of my mouth again.
    “Whoa, chill out. We’re just gonna grab some Jumbo Jacks—God.”
    In my head, I was fantasizing about jumping into the front seat, drop-kicking her out of the car, slamming the door, and stepping on the gas. Instead I just sat in the dining area of the Jack in the Box while the four girls leisurely enjoyed their hamburgers. I called Dan to see how much damage was done.
    “Your dad looked all pissed off. I told him you were in Mexico,” Dan said.
    “You told him I was in Mexico?! Why did you tell him I was in Mexico?!” I screamed.
    “Because you were in Mexico.”
    I hung up the phone. Shortly after, Stacy and her friends moseyed back to the car. We continued our drive up the coast and, upon reaching San Diego, headed to Stacy’s apartment, where my car was parked. I grabbed my travel bag out of the back of the Blazer and briskly walked toward my car.
    “Um,