Breaking Good

by Mike B. Good

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  Chapter 1: Family Reunion

  (4th of July, Santa Barbara, 2010)

  For most American families, Independence Day meant a good time. For the Good family, it meant the annual family reunion. The antithesis of a good time, our family reunions were a source of dread rather than celebration. Especially for the rest of the family, who worried that I might show up. And sometimes I did, if only to bug them. No longer young, but never grown up, I’d be shunned from the adults’ table. Fine with me. I’d much rather sit with the younger generation than with that stodgy group. Those grumps were so conservative they only sat to the right of each other. It was no wonder I’d rebelled against their regime. At least Nixon (AKA: Uncle Dick) wasn’t around anymore. After a practical joke involving Uncle Dick and wacky post-hypnotic suggestions cost him the election against Kennedy, he and I really didn’t get along.

  I checked out the squares from Cabrillo Beach’s parking lot, took a few extra tokes for resolve, then sighed. It was time to spread some good vibes. I cruised across the sand and greeted the frowning partygoers at the “grown-ups’ table” with a smile. They welcomed me with sneers. I flipped them a shaka sign. The dour revelers flipped me the bird. I shook my head. Whose family wears three-piece business suits and wingtips to a beach party? And that’s just the women. Wearing a classic aloha shirt, surf shorts, and flip-flops over my unpopular black wool, I was far too cool to fit in.

  “Hey, Uncle Mike,” yelled my nephew Jake from a friendlier table, “sit over here by Gary and me.”

  Jake, with his preppy clothes and short hair looked conservative, as well, but at least he surfed and partied when not designing software.

  “Don’t mind if I do, Jakey boy.”

  “Whoa, you smell like pot.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to Jake’s nerdy-looking guest. Picture a young Don Knotts, then add thick glasses. “Jesus, Gary, you must be really bored to come to a Good family reunion.”

  Red-faced, he admitted, “I just came for the insider stock tips.”

  “I was just telling Gary that you’ve been all over the place,” said Jake. “You went to South America, didn’t you?”

  “Sure did. Spent a year down there.”

  “How was it?”

  “Except for the disasters, I had a fantastic time. Why?”

  “We just graduated last month, and before we enter the rat race, we want to have an adventure.”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we thought, too. Anyway, we’re planning on exploring South America.”

  “Exploring?” I pointed at Gary’s pen-stuffed pocket protector. “What are you guys? Computer geeks turned archeologists?”

  “Well, traveling anyway.”

  “Be careful, Indiana, ‘cause I know your uptight mom is gonna want you back.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Gary. “Is South America dangerous?”

  “Hell, yeah, it’s dangerous. You a danger lover, Gary?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, in that case, you probably shouldn’t go to South America.”

  “Uncle Mike is just kidding, Gary,” said Jake, giving me a look.

  “Jake’s right,” I lied. “It’s not dangerous. Well, at least not all the time. Then again, when you least expect it,” I said, slapping the table, “look out!”

  Gary jumped out of his seat.

  Jake gave me another look. It said, “Knock it off.”

  “Is it really that bad?” asked Gary.

  “Well, it was for me, but that was forty years ago and I was kinda reckless.”

  “Mom says you still are,” said Jake.

  “She thinks buying municipal bonds is reckless. Still, I doubt everyone had the bizarre trip I had. Otherwise, no one would go there.”

  “So, Uncle Mike, what’s the safest way to travel in South America?”

  “Safest? What kind of crazy question is that? You don’t go to South America to be safe.”

  “Huh?”

  “You wanna be safe, stay home. You want adventure, go to South America.”

  “Isn’t there a way to do both?”

  “I suppose the safest way is going with a tour group. . .”

  Gary cut me off. “That’s what our moms say.”

  “So, we should go in a tour group?” asked Jake.

  “What? Hell, no. Whatever you do, guys, don’t go anywhere in a tour group. Ever. Unless you hate adventure.” I shook my head in dismay. “Jesus. . .”

  Jake’s fearful buddy wasn’t satisfied with my exhaustive explanation. “Can you explain what’s wrong with tour groups?”

  “Yes, I can. Um, this corn on the cob is delicious.”

  Gary sighed. “Can you be more specific.”

  “What’s vague about delicious?”

  “I was talking about the tour groups.”

  “Oh. Well, let’s see. To be specific, I’m gonna go with, well, everything.”

  Gary gave me a blank look. Rational minds weren’t open enough to understand the beauty of my worldview.

  “Look, guys, I’ll make this as clear as I can. Going to foreign countries isn’t about staying safe, it’s about doing wild and crazy stuff you’ll remember the rest of your life. Especially when you’re somewhere safe and bored out of your mind.”

  “So, just like college?” asked Jake.

  “There you go. Of course, that’s only if you live to have those crazy memories.”

  “I see your point, but our moms keep telling us not to go unless it’s with a tour group. They say it’s way too dangerous.”

  “Well, that’s what moms get paid for. And even if they’re right, what do they know?”

  “Did grandma say the same thing?”

  “Heh heh. . .no. . .actually your grandparents suggested I travel as soon as I graduated. To Vietnam.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, they were pretty upset when I didn’t wanna go to law school. Even more when I went to Hawaii to grow pot.”

  I waved at birthday boy Dad at the grown-ups’ table. Dressed up in his Uncle Sam costume (as always), he glared back. Then stuck out his tongue. Dad was nicknamed Dr. Strangelove by admiring colleagues at the CIA, where he’d reigned since the Cold War years as Mad-Scientist-in-Chief. With his ramrod straight posture, crewcut, and paranoid schizophrenia, Dad was not a fun guy. It had been up to me to have enough fun for the both of us. He didn’t appreciate the effort.

  “Looks like he’s still pissed off,” observed Jake.

  I shrugged. When wasn’t he? At least, at me and the communists.

  “That’s one madman who can really hold a grudge. Anyway, I don’t think they were all that worried about the traveling thing. More that I’d return home after college.”

  “You might be surprised, but my mom recommended I talk to you about going to South America.”

  My younger sister Bonnie, not to mention my parents, my older brother Major Johnny, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, and, well, every single adult in the Good family, did not agree with me on much—so this surprised me.

  “How about that? I never thought she’d tell anyone to follow my advice. Certainly not anyone she loved. Wait a minute, Jake; your mom still loves you, doesn’t she?”

  “Yeah, she does. And no, she didn’t tell me to follow your advice.”

  “Huh?”

  “She said listen to whatever you had to say. . .and then do the opposite.”

  “Ah, that sounds more like her.”

  Of course it did. Bonnie worked for the DEA.

  “Naturally, in the spirit of rebellion, I’ll ignore her advice.”

  “That’s what I always did, and look what it got me.”

  “Uh oh,” groaned Jake, reconsi
dering his plan.

  “I think our moms are right, Jake,” said Gary. “We should stick to the tour groups.”

  “Whoa there, Gary. Even if you don’t follow my advice,” I warned, “don’t stick to the tour groups.”

  “But if we don’t stick to tour groups. . .then we’re following your advice.”

  Gary was way too hung up with logic. I straightened him out.

  “Don’t worry so much about being smart. That kinda bullshit didn’t help me one bit when it came to the real world.”

  “Mom says that’s because you were born with no common sense.”

  (Dad, out of his mind and a tinkerer by nature, had eliminated it to make room for the starfish genes he’d inserted. The results had proved mixed. Bad decisions led to frequent injuries—but at least I healed fast.)

  “So, Uncle Mike, can you give us some tips?”

  “Of course, Jake. Whaddaya wanna know?”

  “Well, you know, good places to go, where to stay, the best ways to get around. . .that kind of stuff.”

  “Okay, first travel tip—fly everywhere. No matter what, do not travel by bus on the Pan American Highway. Or anywhere else.”

  “We’re on a budget. We’re gonna go everywhere by bus; start in Colombia, then work our way south to Peru. That way we get to make stops along the journey, see all the local culture.”

  “Aw, man, that’s exactly what Buddy and I did. Wished we hadn’t. Trust me, some of those stops will try to kill you.”

  “Huh?”

  “Especially the abrupt ones after going off a cliff.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  I shook my head. “You guys have a lot to learn about traveling in the Third World. But I understand how it is. Without lots of bread, you won’t be able to afford the pricey plane tickets they have down there. Just remember something; the bus rides are dirt cheap and intolerably uncomfortable, but as a bonus, they will try to murder you.”

  “The Pan American Highway is that bad?”

  “No. . .it’s worse. Plus, you gotta worry about other passengers.”

  “Passengers?”

  “Some of them are berserk and all of them armed. The better behaved ones don’t attack. On the other hand, they smell vile, chain smoke Piel Rojas, and spit a lot.”

  “Armed?” squeaked Gary.

  “Well, some only have the one.” With a nostalgic cringe, I added, “I saw a lot of stumps down there.”

  Gary shook his head. “Actually, I meant armed with guns.”

  I shrugged. “Guns, knives, machetes, sharpened screwdrivers. . .whatever.”

  “Sharpened screwdrivers? But. . .why?”

  “They’re a poor people, Gary. Not everyone can afford a gun.”

  “Actually, I meant, why does everyone carry a weapon?”

  “There’s fierce competition for the seats. They need room for their children, their chickens, their goats, their. . .”

  “Seriously?” interrupted Jake, as if I was making it up.

  “Then there are the earthquakes, floods, and landslides. Though it wants to murder you, the scenery will blow your mind.”

  “So, except for the Pan American Highway, the passengers on it, and the terrifying yet gorgeous scenery, it’s safe?”

  “If you don’t count oncoming sociopathic bus drivers playing chicken on hairpin turns next to bottomless drop offs. And let’s not forget random roadblocks manned by bandits. . .”

  Jake cut me off. “Bandits?”

  “Well, you never really know. They could be bandits, police, soldiers, guerilla fighters, desperate cannibals. . .”

  “Why do they have roadblocks?”

  “So they can hijack the bus and hold you for ransom. I thought that would be obvious.”

  “Highjack?” said Jake.

  “Ransom?” said a quivering Gary.

  “Well, the cannibals have a different agenda, but don’t worry about it.”

  “Don’t worry about it?”

  “We could die on our fun vacation?”

  “At any moment,” I said, clapping my hands for emphasis, mimicking an Andean mountainside crushing a bus like a bug.

  Gary looked at Jake. “Have a nice trip.”

  “Don’t worry, Gary, he’s exaggerating. Right, Uncle Mike? Please say yes.”

  All right, maybe I was exaggerating a bit. Not that I’d admit it. I doubted if all those things threatened every traveler. After all, not everyone had my good karma. The point is, I had to warn those naïve kids about the bus. I wanted them to make it home alive.

  “I’m serious, you guys need to hit up your moms for some extra traveling bread. Then you can upgrade your trip.”

  “They’ll only help us out if we join a tour group,” said Jake with a sigh.

  “Forget it.” I couldn’t allow that. Not in good conscience. “Better to die on a bus, right, Gary?”

  “Uh. . .” he agreed.

  “All kidding aside,” I said, “getting around down there is sketchy.”

  “But you were there forty years ago, Uncle Mike.”

  “You’re right, it’s gotta be somewhat better by now. . .or does it?”

  “The travel blogs we’ve read show mixed results.”

  Gary said, “There does seem to be a preponderance of volcanoes and landslides.”

  I shook my head. “Some things never change. If you wanna learn more, you can read my travel stories.”

  “Come on, Uncle Mike, they didn’t even have blogs back then.”

  “No, but they did have paper and pens and I wrote a book.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “I call it High In The Andes.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “No one has. It’s sitting in a drawer.”

  “Cool,” said Jake. “Your book will tell us everything we need to know for traveling down there.”

  “No, it won’t. No book can tell you all that. To really learn about a place, you gotta go there, absorb the culture, see the sights, shed some blood. . .”

  “That makes sense. Although I don’t like that last part.”

  “I didn’t either.”

  “So, what does your book tell us?”.

  “Well, since you’re taking the same route, my book will give you a heads up, a glimpse of what you’re about to deal with.”

  “That should help.”

  “Oh, it will. You can learn a lot from my mistakes.”

  Gary seemed doubtful of my travel wisdom. “Maybe you can give us an example?”

  “Stay away from tour groups.”

  “You already said not to join them.”

  “Not joining them isn’t enough. You literally need to stay away from them.”

  Gary sighed. “Do you have any examples that don’t include tour groups?”

  “Sure. How about where to score the best recreationals?”

  Jake brightened up. “I guess you do have some good advice.”

  My pointy head bloated with the compliment. “I’ll also teach you how to pay bribes.”

  “Is that important, too?”

  “Of course it is. You guys are gonna be getting high, aren’t you?”

  “We sure hope so,” said Jake.

  “Bribery works great for everything else, too. You’ll need to know these things if you wanna have a great time, and unless the Crowded Planet staff has changed its policies, they’re not gonna help.”

  “He’s right, Gary,” agreed Jake, “my Crowded Planet research hasn’t been helpful with that at all. In fact, they recommend staying away from recreational drugs.”

  Gary finally came around. “I guess it can’t hurt to read your book, Mike.”

  “Use me as role model, and you’ll know what not to do and where not to go.

  Meet The Author

  Mike B. Good, shown here feeling awkward and lonely after boarding the wrong flight. Following his ill-fated miss
ion to colonize the moon, Mike began writing about his crazy experiences.

  He is the author of Breaking Good (the first novel in the Señor Bueno Adventures series). Next up in the series: High In The Andes, and The Machu Picchu Blues. And don’t forget Weird Trips, a hilarious collection of travel adventures gone very wrong!

  Mike now lives, well, somewhere in a state of mild dementia and spends his time writing dubious memoirs before he totally loses it.

  See more at: http://www.mikebegood.com

  Email Mike at: senorbuenowrites.com

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