I recently lost my first adult job, so my father decided to cheer me up with an impromptu trip to New Orleans for the weekend. Initially, we had decided to venture up to Indiana to spend ten days in this renovated home that had become my father’s pet project since the end of tax season, however the rotted electrical system required more time to work so we decided to spend the weekend in New Orleans. The benefit of being your own boss is taking off time whenever you want. After removing what few personal affects I had from my office and loading up the cooler with craft beer and cold cuts, my father and I left for one of our favorite spots in the country.

The drive between Houston and New Orleans is nothing worthy of note unless you converse about it. The coastal plane is largely a continued swampland occasionally interrupted by small bodies of water and what southerns would describe as scrapers, but New Yorkers would classify as a walk up. My father and I don’t talk about the scenery unless it involves something utterly bizarre, we mostly talk about the music stations.

“Do you have anything by Van Halen?” my father asks. He’s slowly approaching fifty years old, in both body and mind. In recent years he taken more initiative in enriching both aspects, but lately the mind seemed to be the more nurtured. Tortoise sport glasses cover his eyes and a designer drivers cap covers his balding head. He’s also white, that’s somewhat important.

“I have Johnny Cash.” I respond. A soft strumming echoes through the cabin of the truck before the Man In Black’s iconic voice greets us. He begins to sing about the difficulties of weekends and the taste of beer for breakfast.

“'Sunday Morning Coming Down', I remember this one. 68 I believe.”

“'72'.” I correct. “Kris Kristofferson wrote the song for Johnny Cash while he was still on ABC. In fact, Kristofferson was a Rhodes Scholar…” I ramble. I tell my father about how Kristofferson was a solider who decided to become a musician, which inevitably got him disowned by his family due to his choice to follow a sinner, also known as Johnny Cash. He gives his trademark, HMM, before answering a client phone call. I go back to reading my film essays of Hadley Freeman.

When we make it halfway between Houston and Beaumont, we pull into the parking lot of one of the finest institutions in all of Texas, Bucee’s. Founded in 1982, this hybrid of the typical clean gas station and a Walmart superstore has become a staple of travel for those traveling through the state of Texas. At any given time, cars, trucks, and RV’s are packed under the endless rows of gas pumps viewing out at whatever part of the open road that isn’t obscured by the 70 foot tall sign displaying a creepy, carton of a beaver that looked like the unholy hybrid of Chip and Dale from the Disney cartoons.

As dad fills up the truck and prepares himself a turkey, salami, and cheese sandwich, I venture into the mecca of interstate travel. Two cashiers tending to customers greet me as I venture through the center walkway of the store. A dozen rows of snack foods line offer anything one might want in their travels, from exotic trail mixes to pork rhines all branded with the haunting image of the demon beaver. Fortunately, the freezers are free from such branding, however one is blocked by a barricade of shelves offering Texas made salsas and jams, packed away in mason jars decorated with the same awful logo.

When one makes it past those obstacles, they reach the holy grounds of the bathrooms. When one ventures past the barrage of rejected Texas themed bed bath and beyond decorations, one is greeted with wall to wall stalls that remind you if a stall his occupied or free to explore. They manage to combine the comfort of a confession booth and an airplane bathroom without the need to explain yourself. For a few moments, you escape the crowded space of whatever transportation brought you and the inevitable destination, and simply escape into silence.

After procuring a brisket sandwich and Diet Cokes, my father and I returned to the open road and our shared playlist. Everything from the upbeat pop of Hall and Oates to the inspirational, yet haunting croon of Mick Jagger on 'Wild Horses.'

I read some more, my dad and I didn't talk that much until we make it Baton Rogue about some Shock Jock on the Radio. The man claims to be a legal expert who gives out advice on his show to anyone who needs it. A man calls for tax advice and the shock jock beats around the subject while my father, an accountant, corrects the shock jock before he can give the advice. The shock jock then makes a joke about prison rape and nobody laughs.

"I didn't think you could get away with that on the radio." my dad says.

"It's Louisiana, the rules are different here." I say.

My dad waits a moment and asks me the question that had been on his mind since the day after I lost. "Have you given any more thought to law school?"

"Entertainment law, somewhere like UCLA or Loyola, good program and connections."

"That's good baby."

I lay back in the seat and try to sleep, but I keep having this dream about my old job. I am unprepared, the coworkers are doing everything perfectly, yet I can manage the simple things. Every boss crowds the already small room where I worked, and they ask to see my results.

I wake up and return a call to my ex explaining how I lost my job. I thank her for her concern and I wish her the best, then my dad gets us our coffee. He finds a radio station that plays more of the 80's pop music we love. We talk about it all the way to New Orleans, and we can come to the conclusion that the beautiful ones is one of Prince's best songs.