Pancakes in Pittsburgh

Chapter 2

We played our local radio station until we got out of its range, it was about 5:30 in the afternoon and we started to get hungry, "Where are we going to eat?" I asked her from behind the wheel.

She stared out over the road, entranced by the encroaching pavement, "How long have we been driving?"

"Um, er, well we left at four o'clock, so," I said.

"An hour and thirty minutes." She put her head back and arched her neck and stared out the sunroof.

"And how long will it take us to this Knobles Family Resort?" she read from a mapquest paper I had printed out premature to our journey.

"Uhm, well, from what I remember maybe about three more hours?" I guessed.

"You're joking."

"I shit you not boopy."

"You told me it was less than a three hour ride!"

"That's before we caught traffic in Philly," I explained, "I knew we would, just not on the bridge." We got backed up the entire span, the entire Camden-bound lane was closed off by police cars. Everyone bottlenecked, even myself.

"What was up with that?" she noted as she reclined the chair back slightly.

"I think somebody was actually IN the bridge," I remembered them taking a gross mattress and several trashbags out of the stone base towers of the Ben Franklin Bridge. While we were in traffic, Zale saw a building on the river she liked, we literally talked about the building the entire time; what it looked like, who lived there. I said it was probably half-vacant since it had a huge vacancy sign, she disagreed and said that someone rich probably lives at the top.

"Here," I gave Zale my phone, "look up for any restaurants around us."

We were off of the Chonshawken Curve and were set traffic wise, I recognize this road like the back of my hand: the houses on the Schuylkill and the college kids training for crew. My dad always said that the Curve is the worst place to get traffic, "It's literally a huge turn, everyone slows down thinking that they'll fly off the edge if they're not careful!" I haven't been on this road since to clean out my grandparent's house in Pottstown.

"There's an iHop a few miles off of the Curve," she looked up, "how long until that?"

"Pff," I blew air out of my nose, "twenty minutes."

"Good, I'm dying."