“Earthroamer, huh?”
“Yup. Custom made and ready to tour the world. Cab seats four in luxurious style, Tempurpedic on the sleeper right above us, full kitchen and refrigerator/freezer with a separate wine fridge.”
“And the shitter.”
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to mention that, Bobby. What the hell did you do in there?”
“Wreaked some havoc.”
“It smells like an alcoholic clown in here.”
“I flushed.”
“Flushed? What flushed? There’s no flushed. It’s an RV, man: that thing is just a fancy hole over a bucket. Just like a tour bus. How do you not know the tour bus rules?”
“Oh, well: there you go, Josh. Dead never had a tour bus. We flew. Second we could afford it, we got on a plane.”
“What about before you could afford it?”
“We still flew, but Bear paid for it.”
“Right.”
“There were a lotta vans. But, you know: there’s no toilet whatsoever in a van. There’s no confusion. This thing doesn’t even have a sign.”
“It doesn’t need one. I informed you in the clearest terms possible that you weren’t to poop; you did.”
“Pooped in your car.”
“Yeah.”
“You wanted to be a Grateful Dead, Josh.”
“Yeah.”
“Where we headed, anyway?”
“Europe was the last I saw her.”
“Okay. We gonna stop before we get there? I think Billy’s hungry.”
“What?”
“Stop at Cracker Barrel! I want Racist Breakfast!”
“HOW’D BILLY GET IN HERE?”
“Good question, Josh.”
“Keen eye for detail and continuity, kid.”
…
“Jesus, Weir: you poop in the car? Smells like an alcoholic clown in here.”
“Goddammit.”
“How should I have known not to poop in the car? There’s no sign!”
“He’s right, Josh: there should be a sign.”
“Both of you stop talking. Is anyone else here?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Josh, are there any drums in here?”
“GODDAMMIT, HOW MANY GRATEFUL DEADS ARE IN MY EARTHROAMER?”
“Just us.”
“Why do I smell smoke?”
“Okay, Garcia’s in your bathroom.”
…
“Goddammit.”
“No, Bob: this is not I-40.”
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