Vacation with the Buxleys was unbearable. They were all about numbers. 197 miles to Scottsbluff. 24 minutes to the next Flying J. Barometric pressure is 29.1 and dropping. And they didn't just talk numbers; they brawled numbers. If any of the three Buxley machines - man, woman, or prepubescent - committed an error minute as a hundredth of a percent, it was the job of the other two to gang up on the mistaken party and chastise until all of their boxy foreheads were dewy with computational perspiration. This is why I hadn't said anything in 150 miles. 156, to be exact.
What started as a well-meant ploy by my mother to get me out of town for a week had now escalated into a hostage situation. I was perched in the backseat of a plasticky SUV with a strange family, afflicted with reading-in-the-car queasiness and a terminal no-rest-stop-for-300-miles bladder infection. My trip was spent staring absently out the window, pointedly avoiding any sort of dialogue with the Buxleys' ghastly, rabbit