“You’re going to the beach with us. Period.” This came from my father in a firm and direct tone.

“Please, Dad! No! I’ll do anything! I promise! Anything!”

When he disregarded me, I knew my pleading would get me nowhere. I took a deep breath and tried the calm, cool, and collected approach.

“Dad. I really think that you and Mom are just overreacting.”

He said nothing. I took this as a good sign.

“I already explained that all this, really, wasn’t my fault…”

I said this in the most nonchalant way possible, trying to make it seem like less of a big deal than it really was.

Still nothing, so I felt safe to go on.

“I think if the three of us could just sit down and talk —”

And that’s about when Mount Saint Helens hit.

I watched as my father’s face deepened into a dark and uncomfortable shade of red. I heard him shout in decibels my ears had never experienced.

         “Sit down and talk?! Sit down and talk?!

    “What ABOUT, Valerie?”

Rather than salting the wound, even more, this time, I said nothing and packed a bag.

When I said I’d do anything to get out of this beach trip, I meant it. Work on a road crew in scorching temperatures. Bathe one of the dogs next time it was doused by a skunk. Lick an ashtray. Lose a limb…

You name it, and I would have gladly suffered through it, anything to escape the week-long wrath with dear ol’ Mom and Dad, (cooped up in a tiny RV, no less).  And the fact they were dragging me to the beach, that didn’t matter. The beach, a barren wasteland, it was all the same to me at that point. My life with them for the next seven consecutive days would be a living nightmare, they would make sure of it.

Now, there were, of course, the obvious nineteen-year-old reasons why I didn’t want to accompany my parents on this beach vacation (and I use the term vacation very loosely). There was a bit more to it than that.

And to beat all, what they were upset with me about, what they were blaming me for, really and truly wasn’t my fault. Or so I believed.  

I’ll briefly explain.

It happened on a Friday night.

Without going into too much detail, what started out as a couple of friends coming over and hanging out, quickly escalated into, well, basically, a John Hughes film.

But not by my doings. And I sincerely mean that. I’d always been a most excellent gatekeeper while they were away (up until that point, anyway).

In my defense, the number of people I actually invited over, you could count on one hand.

It was the people they brought, the people they invited, that created all the havoc.

I can remember trying my best to screen each individual on arrival, promptly turning away every stranger. Despite this seemingly successful interrogation process I developed on the fly, the house soon reached full capacity (and beyond). The guests who didn’t meet my criteria at the door soon found their way through the basement.

It was somewhere close to midnight, when a uniformed pizza delivery guy showed up with darn-near twenty pizzas or more, that I finally realized my casual weekend hangout had turned into uncontrollable chaos. 

And, unlike any of those iconic movie flick finales, I did not end up with some dreamboat named “Jake” or “Blaine” or even a super cute misfit that I’d share an earring set with.

Oh, no. This script was full of real-life repercussions, the first one being a week-long nightmare in the cramped family RV.  If I was lucky enough, my nightmare might end up similar to Johnny Depp’s. I would have welcomed getting sucked up by the RV’s convertible couch bed cushion.

Yep, the gatekeeper I was no longer. (“And I would’ve gotten away with it, too. If it weren’t for those meddling neighbors!”)

I was nineteen years old, for crying out loud. Legally they couldn’t force me to do anything, and I didn’t hesitate to remind them of it, too. In turn, they reminded me that I could either choose to accompany them on this seaside RV extravaganza or, basically, find another place to live. And since no backup plan was in place, I was forced to climb into the little family-mobile and remain with them for a week? Eternity? What was the difference?

“I don’t have to talk to you. And I won’t. Not the entire time!”

I can still hear myself telling them as my newly ripened, aged-to-perfection “adult” self resentfully sat in the furthest spot possible on the jackknife sofa.

“That’s fine,” my mother replied, “It might be best that way.” My father only glaring at me from the rearview mirror.

Even if I did argue that the whole thing really wasn’t my fault, the fact of the matter was, they felt I couldn’t be trusted. Not anymore.

I totally see their side of things now, but back then, that trip was the most humiliating thing they could have possibly done. But that was the whole point, now wasn’t it?

Off to the beach, we went. Me, Mom, Dad, and that spoiled rotten Shih Tzu whom I knew they loved way more than me.  

Their black and white furry favorite jumped on my seat and began panting his rancid dog breath in my direction. If the humiliation didn’t kill me, the toxic fumes from the dog’s mouth would. My only hope was that it would happen shortly after we pulled out of the driveway, to spare me the seven days of agony.

I grabbed my headphones, pushed play on my Walkman, and tried to escape this hellish torment.

The electric guitar intro of “18 and Life,” blasted between both ears. I closed my eyes and braced myself for Sebastian Bach’s electrifying vocal screams that would pair nicely with both my angst, and the purgatory I felt I had been detained in. I was ready to get this over with.

Managing to immediately doze off, I woke to the slowing motion as our vehicle stopped. Feeling a wave of summer heat drift through the RV, I slightly opened one eye, still trying to maintain my sleep status to avoid any chance conversations.

We were in “downtown” Moneta, which was only about three and a half Skid Row songs away from our house.  Back then, Moneta consisted of a fire station and five old buildings, one being a little restaurant, another a produce store.

I noticed a small row of cars ahead of us. We were stuck in standstill traffic already, and probably a first for the tiny town. Not a great start to the six-plus hours that lay ahead of me, not to mention the remaining one hundred and sixty-eight.

My dad had shut off the a/c and rolled the windows down, making the cozy RV more like a radiating toaster oven. The Shih Tzu’s pants had progressed even worse, and now a continual foul-smelling dog saliva dripped on my leg. I knew this must have been part of the premeditated punishment.

As I sat waiting in stifling misery, I could see a man out the opposite window. He was wearing a bright orange vest and toting a megaphone in one hand and a portable stop sign in the other. I turned down “The Bach” to get a listen to what was happening.

“They must be shooting a scene from that movie.” My mom said keenly, directing her sleuth observation to both me and my dad as if reminding us all those years of reading crime novels had finally paid off.

“That movie” had been all the hype in the area for the last few months. Seems as though Hollywood had chosen our little rural Virginia town as the setting for a major motion picture, and one with a few big stars. But I was over it, especially then, given my current circumstances. Plus, I had a disgruntled disposition I vowed to uphold the entire time, and, by golly, nothing, not even a star-studded movie shoot, was going to stop it.

I ignored my mother, closed my eyes, and opted to make her think I was lost in the realms of sleep and rock and roll.

The orange-vested, megaphoned, stop sign-carrying guy had walked over to my father’s side of the vehicle and directed my dad to park a few feet back. As my father backed up, I abruptly sat up and jerked off my headphones.

“What’s going on?” I asked, highly irritated. “Why are we stopped?” So much for not talking the whole trip.

“The gentleman directed us to pull over.” My mother answered. “They’re shooting a scene from that movie, Valerie. Don’t you think that’s exciting?” She tried her best to engage me in this Hollywood hoopla. At the same time, my dad was busy rubbernecking, hoping to catch a celebrity glimpse.

You have got to be kidding me! It was like this whole southbound train nightmare was moving in a painful, and slow, motion.

The orange-vested megaphoned stop sign guy garbled something through the cone ending with a clear, “Quiet on the set!”

I watched as my mom and dad sat in their front seats, motionless, as if the slightest movement might totally ruin the entire motion picture (never mind whatever they were filming was inside the restaurant, which had been restaged as a general store.)

They were acting completely ridiculous, like giddy children. I rolled my eyes, put my headphones back on, and leaned back on the seat, trying my best not to vomit as the Shih Tzu emitted his putrid breeze towards me.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally heard the word “Cut!” shouted as the orange-vested man appeared back outside followed by a horde of others, as they all scuttled out of the feigned general store like a trail of ants rushing to a half-eaten lollipop. 

The orange-vested man motioned us back on the road, my dad starting the engine and giving him some sort of weird goodbye salute as if the two of them had become bosom buddies. 

Slowly we pulled through the congested area, stopping to allow a man with an armful of camera equipment to cross in front of us.

As we waited for the man to finish crossing, there was a loud banging coming from the RV’s folding entry door. I heard a muffled voice coming from outside the windows.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!” More knocking followed.

 I watched as my dad nervously fumbled with the mechanical arm on the RV’s console, swinging it over, and opening the entry door.

I kept the headphones on, but Bach off.

“I’m sorry, but would you folks mind giving me a lift up the road?”

From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see who stood outside the opened door.  What I could see was my father’s face, which had now been drained of all its color.

I was suddenly reminded of the urban legend hitchhiker I’d heard about at nearly every sleepover I attended. Visions raced through my mind giving the famous fable a horrifying sense of reality.

Surely, my dad wouldn’t pick up this stranger, let alone with his wife, child, and precious pooch inside.

“Well… Well, Shoot…” My dad was stumbling to answer back. What was wrong with him? This was the first time in my life I had ever witnessed my father at a loss for words. The babbling continued in an inaudible voice until my mom took over.

“Of course.” She said smiling and in a cheerful tone.  “Come on up. You can have a seat in the back.”

A seat in the back? That’s where I was! My thudding heart picked up in pace even more.

Had my parents gone absolutely mad?!  I continued looking straight ahead. It was best not to make eye contact with the stranger, I thought. I couldn’t believe my parents had freely allowed a potential mass murderer on board with us!

The first thing I noticed from the corner of my eye was that our new passenger was wearing a backpack. It was a small one, but a backpack just the same; big enough to carry whatever might be needed to take care of a family of three and a half. I said a silent prayer, trying to retract all the previous thoughts about wishing I was dead.

He was sitting right next to me, and I could feel him staring. Praise God I had not taken off the headphones, this would be the saving grace not to talk. From my peripheral vision, I could tell he was scooting closer to me. And then closer and closer.

“Well,” the hitchhiker spoke as he boldly inched even closer. “Who do we have here?”

A classic murderer introduction line, for sure. He wanted to get to know his victims, right before he did them in. I maintained my dead stare ahead and felt my palms sweating. The Shih Tzu jumped down off the far end of the bench seat and hopped up onto my mother’s lap.

“Oh, that’s Valerie,” she said as she held up a plastic bowl of water for her favorite to gulp. My mother then ended her introductory statement with a chuckle.

Was she insane? What could possibly be so funny about all this? My father was still blabbering untranslatable stutters from the driver’s seat.

I couldn’t help but think I had caused all this. It was my fault my parents were not in their right minds. I had driven them to this by my irresponsible actions. If this hitchhiker hacked us all up, I’d be responsible for that, too. Speaking of, our stranger was now sitting so close to me, I could feel his breath on the side of my face. Not cool. Terrifying, yes, but still not cool. This had gone entirely too far, all hitchhiking-killer fear, aside. I jerked off my headphones, snapped my head to the left to confront him, and found myself eye to eye with the hitchhiking stranger.

There wasn’t a phantom hitcher before me, nor was there a murderer in the flesh.  In one sense, our new passenger was a stranger, yet in another, he wasn’t.

In total shock, I backed up to the arm of the bench seat he shared with me, my headphones falling off, most likely reacting in the very same way had he been a ghost or a killer.

Both of my parents laughed hysterically, which of course, kicked me back into my infuriated state I vowed to uphold the entire trip. I glared at them, embarrassed, and not quite sure how to react to it all.

I did the only thing I knew to do; I put my headphones back on and faced forward in a huff. It made no difference that the person sitting beside me, the one that had turned my father into a tongue-tied fool, the one my mother openly invited to sit beside me, the one I had conjured up as a psychotic hitchhiking hacker that would end up killing us all, turned out to be, none other than, my favorite Ghostbuster.

“So, what’s your problem?” Bill Murray asked as he was inches away from my face.

I was dumbfounded.

“Oh! Come on!” He yelled, making me flinch and startling me, catching me off guard.

The fact that my mother and father were laughing so hard they could barely breathe wasn’t helping matters.

And then, in a softer, subtler, singsongy voice, he asked me again. I did a double-take, just to make certain he was, indeed, who I thought he was.

I still wasn’t exactly sure how to react, he seemed unpredictable, and that made me nervous. I also had my “mad at the world” attitude to upkeep, so I placed the chip back on my shoulder and ignored them all.

And then, right on cue, good ol’ Mom felt the need to pipe up yet again.

“Tell him.”  

Confused, I turned around to look at her.

“Go on,” my mother continued, “Tell Mr. Murray what’s wrong, Valerie. Why you’re so angry.”

I felt my eyes bulge from their sockets. You can’t be serious, woman!

I felt an overwhelming heat rush through my body; a surge of fiery anger I never knew I had. I was so enraged, I felt sure I might have the ability to combust the entire RV with all of us in it, Bill Murray included.

I turned to my father, the tried and true voice of reason, to rescue me from this foolishness my mother had evoked. Not even comprehending what she had orchestrated, my father sat in his seat grinning from ear to ear, star-struck by it all.

Bill Murray looked from me to my parents, and then back to me again. There was silence, all except for the dog’s annoying panting.

And then Mr. Murray interrupted the awkward quietude, “You’re upset. What about, Valerie?”

They’d gone and done it now! Humiliating me was one thing; placing Bill Murray smack-dab in the middle of it, well that took it all to a whole new level!

Sensing the friction, Mr. Murray took my hand and, very sensitively and straight-faced, looked me in the eye and said, “Tell me what’s going on. Think of me as your therapist.”

Wails of laughter from both of my unhinged parents filled the tiny RV, so much the Shih Tzu’s plaguing pants switched to howls. And, as much as I tried to fight it, it didn’t take long before I too was convulsing with laughter.

After driving him to his next destination, Mr. Murray thanked us, shook my dad’s hand, hugged my mom, and ruffled my hair. Before he stepped out of the RV, I remember him encouraging us three to “Give each other a break,” which we all agreed to do.

“Now, go! Enjoy the beach!” he said, “And be good to each other!

One day you’ll look back on this and laugh!”

And in that surreal moment, my mom, dad, and I watched as Bill Murray, aka Bob Wiley, exited our vehicle, giving me some of the most practical advice I’d ever receive.

That ride down south didn’t seem so long, and the week at the beach didn’t seem so bad.

As life went on, we were good to each other, maybe even better, but not before giving each other numerous breaks along the way.