Day #4: Time to Go…

Dry Run Road Trip - Entry #8

I’d set my alarm for 6 a.m. I needed to call the Trooper barracks and speak to the Pennsylvania State trooper we’d spoken with the previous morning. I called the number he’d given me, and the desk sergeant patched me through to Trooper Krahe.

“I was the guy who talked to you yesterday,” I explained once he was on the line. “I’d told you that I was going to have my car checked out to see if it had been damaged by the kids doing donuts. I didn’t need to have it checked - once we could see it in the daylight it was clear that there’s damage on the driver’s side from a impact at pretty high speed.”

“Well, that’s going to be a problem,” the Trooper told me.

“How so?”

“See… you didn’t have us document that at the scene. And then you left. In PA, once you leave, if you’re not in the police report, we can’t put you in there.”

We were talking on speakerphone, and Ben was on his side next to me.

“He didn’t ask for your information,” he whispered. “That’s his fault, not yours…”

I knew that.

“I told you that we’d been hit by the debris caused by this accident,” I told him. “You told me to call you if I found any…”

“I’m just telling you what they’re going to say,” the Trooper interrupted me. “I’m not saying that you’d ever do this but - some people, they leave the scene, they get damage somewhere else, and they try to blame it on the accident.”

“I called you less than two hours later,” I told him. “I left you a voicemail. The damage to the car is visible. I can come show you. We stayed overnight in Erie another night in case you needed to see it.”

The Trooper didn’t need to see it, or want to see it. He still didn’t even want to take my name. He’d not included me in this police report, and now, as far as he was concerned, the report had been written. Walmart had been the only injured party. Case closed! What the fuck.

“My insurance company wants me to get on the police report,” I told him. “We need to get on a report somehow before we leave the state.”

The Trooper told me that, according to Pennsylvania law, all I needed to do was fill out a form with the DOT. That was the same as an accident report.

“How will I get the other driver’s information?” I asked him.

“I’m not allowed to give you that, by state law,” he replied.

“What about the surveillance tapes?”

“I have those, and I’ll be reviewing them,” he assured me.

“How about a report number?”

“Well, since I didn’t get your information on the scene, you’re not on it,” Trooper Krahe said.

Ben sat next to me just shaking his head.

“I was at the scene. You left, returned, and I came and talked to you. I was surprised you didn't get my information…”

“State law prohibits me from adding you to the report after the fact,” he told me.

“How about a new police report, then?”

“That’s what the DOT form is for.”

This was infuriating. I could see I was getting nowhere. We ended the call with Trooper Krahe assuring me that, if he could see the damage on the video, he might be able to do something for me. I told him that I had a dozen photos of my car at the accident scene, including one with the garbage can lid just feet from where it ricocheted off of my car. He invited me to drop those off. If anything changed things, he’d be sure to contact me.

I called back a second time just minutes later, but was told he’d already left for the day. I still hadn’t given him my information, and wanted to make sure he had it now. The desk sergeant listened as I explained what had transpired. I asked him how I could start a new police report. It had been a ‘hit and run’ accident - surely I could speak to some police agency and report it? The Pennsylvania State Police had the jurisdiction, I was told - there were no other police agencies that handled that area. I was surprised - we are spoiled in New York, with each county having a Sheriff’s Department, and many towns having a police department, as well. If one officer failed to do their job you still had one or more chances to get a different one to make it right. In Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania State Police do it all - and their real mission, it seems, is to close cases fast and get back up to the Interstate to ticket speeding drivers.

Still, just in case, I pulled my laptop out and wrote a letter to the Trooper that included all of my information. I uploaded the “evidence photos,” as Ben was calling them, to the Walgreens website. Ben had to get his second vaccine shot at Walgreens later - we’d just pick them up at the same time.

“So because he didn’t get your information - his fault - he can’t include you on the accident report? Is that basically what he’s saying?”

“That’s it,” I replied.

“I told you they put the ones that suck on the overnight shift,” Ben said. “The ones nobody wants to work with. They looked like zombies… probably aren’t even allowed to be out in the sunlight during the day.”

“Or maybe the entire Pennsylvania State Police department is that lazy,” I said.

Ironically, as we drove across town to Peach Street, where we’d seen an IHOP we’d go to for breakfast, we passed four Pennsylvania State Trooper vehicles, one each at four u-turns in a row on the highway.

“I’ll be damned…” Ben finally said. “They really do just want to close the case and get back up here…”

We had a lot of things to get done today.

First on the list: breakfast at IHOP.

I’d wanted to go to the diner over by Presque Isle. I think that it may be owned by the ever-present Sara. But we weren’t able to figure out whether it was closed due to COVID - we hadn’t seen anyone come or go while were there the day before. Ben had been asking for IHOP the entire tie we’d been in Erie. So “chains” won out again.

IHOP no longer had the variety of syrups that I remember, and the menu had been diminished - probably because of COVID regulations. But Ben was able to get his favorite syrup, and we both got something that we liked.

It’s hard to make a visit to IHOP sound exciting, but I will say that this IHOP seemed on par with everything else we’d experienced in Erie, from Walmart employees unable to summon a manager to lazy state troopers who do the bare minimum. Ben asked for his eggs “poached” and the waitress gave him a look that said “Don’t fuck with me today.” Then he asked for his special syrup, and she audibly sighed.

To be fair, there seems to be a real mood in Erie that’s just - depressing. And it seems to be everywhere. It’s infected everyone, from zombie troopers to IHOP employees.

If not for Presque Isle state park, we would have been out of Erie the first moment we were able to leave.

But we were determined to have fun, no matter what…

Next on our list was Walgreens, where Ben had made an appointment to get his second Pfizer vaccine shot. He’d gotten his first in NYC, and we were nervous that we’d have to head down to the city to get the second, but Walgreens has a reservation system that is nationwide, and the local store was able to find his information and set up his second shot for the Erie store.

“Take some pictures so I can post them on Facebook and get some of my vaccine-hesitant friends to reconsider,” Ben suggested.

“I’ll ask her if that’s allowed.”

“Don’t ask, just do it,” Ben told me. “If you ask she’ll say no.”

Judging from some of the other experiences we’d had, I wouldn’t doubt it. But I was concerned and didn’t want to violate any privacy policies. When it was Ben’s turn to get the vaccine I stood up and walked over to the wall, leaning on it. I was still trying to decide whether to ask her when she spoke up.

“Sir, you can videotape this as long as you step back so my supervisor can see me give him the shot,” she said.

Videotape? Even better!

After the shot we took a few more photos outside. Many of Ben’s friends in Europe don’t have the ability to get the vaccine yet due to shortages and other issues in their respective countries, so we discussed whether they’d resent him for being able to fly back to his native country and get it so easily.

After Walgreens we had to head over to the other Walgreens - on the other side of town - to pick up my prints.

I’d sent the evidence photos there after Ben told me his shot was at the “nearest Walgreens.” I’d picked up the print-out of my letter from Staples, and the photos would make up the rest of the evidence packet which I hoped would help Trooper Krahe - pronounced “CRAY”, as in “cray for thinking Pennsylvania State Troopers are going to do anything above the bare minimum” - change his mind. I walked into Walgreens and found the most un-Erie-like employee ever. He was friendly as fuck, and had my prints up on the counter the moment I said my name. A minute later, my payment had processed. I couldn’t believe it. As he called after me with a “You’re gonna have a great day today, CD!” I wanted to turn around and ask him where he was really from. It couldn’t be here. He hadn’t been infected with Erie yet.

With the prints and the letter in hand, we drove over to the Trooper barracks. The desk sergeant seemed very interested in each of the photos - he even picked out the garbage can lid in the photo as the one that had damaged my car.

“He didn’t get your name and address at the scene?” he said at one point.

“Nope. He just gave me his…”

I hoped that would spark some sort of review - a second chance to do the right thing. But he just shook his head, then took the information and put it in the other Trooper’s mailbox.

As you can probably imagine, I’ve never heard from anyone since…

One problem: we still hadn’t found a Presque Isle sticker.

I’d decided that I wanted to put stickers on the white cargo box we’d brought on the trip. I’d already attached the first one - the sticker for the Finger Lakes region, where I live. (I’d already done drives around a number of the lakes, and it really is a ‘home base’ of sorts, so I figured I had to start with that sticker.)

Presque Isle would be next. No way in fucking hell I’d be putting an Erie, PA sticker on anything.

But was there even a Presque Isle sticker? We didn’t even know if one existed.

“I think we should try the Welcome Center,” Benjamin had said multiple times. Every day, though, we’d passed it, this building on a pond toward the beginning of the state park which appeared to house an office and the paddleboat rental. Now we were getting down to the wire. It was ahead on the left, and Ben vowed not to let me pass it this time.

But as we drove down Peninsula Drive, a sign for PRESQUE ISLE PARTNERSHIP DONATIONS appeared.

We looked at each other.

We’d loved this place. We couldn’t not make a donation.

I pulled in.

“How much should I give?” I wondered aloud.

“Enough so that it makes a difference, but not so much that we’re negating the savings from charging for free,” Ben suggested.

That seemed fair.

We pulled up to what appeared to be a line of senior citizens underneath a tent. These were definitely volunteers. I wondered what they did at Presque Isle when they weren’t collecting donations at a drive-thru.

“What’s Stage IV mean, sweetie?” the woman who was standing first in line asked me, pointing to my license plate. I explained that I had neuroendocrine cancer, and she looked pained for me. “Awww… I was hoping that wasn’t it. I was hoping you’d share a story about acting, and tell me you won an award for a play on Stage 4.” She explained that she had stage III cancer but was recovering from it, and that she’d also had a melanoma. Others in her party headed over, and one asked me what Stage IV stood for. “Not now,” she shushed him hurriedly. “I’ll explain it later.”

We told them that we wanted to make a donation. Also, was there anywhere in the area we could get a sticker for the park?

“Well, right here, dear.” She pulled a Presque Isle sticker out of her apron. “And you can donate $5, $10, $20 - any amount you want. You’ll get the sticker, a medallion, and a chance to win a number of prizes in our raffles coming up.”

“We get to help the park and get a sticker?” Ben asked.

“Almost seems too good to be true, I know,” the lady said. “And… you’re going to love this,” she said, looking at Ben. “Free ice cream! Make a donation, and you get the sticker, the medallion, chances to win, and a free ice cream at Sara’s.”

“I’ll take two of the $5 ones,” I said.

“Coming right up!”

Sure enough, we got a little packet containing the aforementioned sticker, a little wooden Presque Isle medallion, instructions on how to enter the contest, and two coupons for ice cream.

“Honey, I’m going to say a prayer for you tonight. You’re going to hang in there in your battle, just like I have. More than a decade with Stage III. Positive energy is coming your way.”

“And from me to you,” I told her.

We’d decided to go back to the beach one more time. We wanted to go for another swim. Charge the car again. Use the free, private bathrooms. All of it. We really didn’t want to say goodbye to Presque Isle. We’d decided we’d likely head back to New York today - perhaps we’d camp in the car, but Ben was eager to get some projects started on the boat that I live on, and he also mentioned how it would feel good to sleep in an actual bed again. But that could wait, because if we took the expressway home we’d make it in four hours, much less than the half-day it had taken us to get here meandering on Route 5.

Ben plugged in the Tesla and then began organizing our beach bags. One of the two folding chairs had been hanging on for dear life - yesterday one of the arms had come loose, and today the feet appeared ready to give up the ghost. We decided to toss it in the dumpster - the one that said USE ONLY FOR TRASH GENERATED HERE.

“Well, it came as a chair, and it’s leaving as garbage,” Ben said. “I think we can say it became trash during our visit…” and with that he tossed it in.

Ben and I went for a swim. There were very few swimmers today - the lake had ‘turned over’, someone said, and it was feeling colder than before. It felt amazing to us. We floated around for a while, comparing this to other beaches we’d been to, both in Florida and New York. This, we agreed, was on par with any of them. Better than most.

I wanted Ben to get a few pictures of me swimming in Lake Erie. I couldn’t say for sure when, or if, I’d be back again. I’d loved every minute of this place, and we’d returned to this beach again and again - this was probably our seventh time here, and our fifth time swimming. I handed Ben my camera and went for a swim. He snapped away.

“Get lots of shots,” I’d told him. “I have to sort through them to find one that doesn’t make me look ridiculous.”

As I swam, I thought about how my usual self-consciousness had been replaced by a nonchalance I’d not experienced in a long time.

The pre-cancer me might have felt self-conscious about my weight. Or my gigantic surgical scar that ran about 14 inches down my abdomen. Even as I’d walked from the beach to the area we set up by the lifeguard stand I could see people doing double-takes - and I hadn’t cared a bit. The old me might have seen such a scar and thought Why doesn’t that guy put a shirt on? But having stage IV cancer changes things.

“You have as much right to be here as anyone,” it tells you.

“This is a ‘bucket list’ road trip. Don’t hesitate to do anything, because you may or may not be back to have a second chance to do it again.”

Stage IV cancer gives you a mandate. For many others at this beach, this may be a simple vacation. Maybe it’s a summer tradition. For you, it’s a final checklist item. And while your cancer may hold off long enough to let you come back, it may not. So do it now.

I felt freer here than I’d felt in a long time.

When it was time to leave, we just had to stop at Sara’s to get our free ice cream.

We were back in Erie again. Incompetence ruled the day - but in our favor, this time.

You see, Sara’s employs children. We estimated them to be 13, maybe 14. I’m hoping that they’re Sara’s children. Regardless, when we pulled up in the drive-thru, a child took our order on an iPad, Chick-fil-a style but without the pleasure. He seemed confused by the flavor - Ben wanted orange/vanilla, but he put in orange. Then, when we got to the booth where you pay, the girl behind the register - who also appeared to be an adolescent - said that he hadn’t entered anything. We had to go back.

So we drove around the line again, out into the street, and made a turn into the drive-thru lane. This time a girl a year or two older walked up to the car. She declared that the boy didn’t know what he was doing, because the donation promotion was still pretty new.

“Actually, I think you’re the first one I’ve seen,” she told us.

“Do you know how to do it?” Ben asked. “Because the boy apparently didn’t know how to do it.”

“Oh, I know how to do it,” she declared matter-of-factly. “You won’t have any problem with this order.” She entered our order into her tablet, and then directed us to go to the register again. The same girl was there. She looked at us, looked at her screen, and shook her head.

“Jeez, does nobody know how to do this yet?” She then vowed to get our order entered and take our money without the need for another go-round. She entered it and gave us the price. Ben reminded her that we had the free coupons and she said “Oh yea. I just need the coupons.” She looked a little confused. Ben then asked if she’d entered the orange or the orange/vanilla for him. She looked at the screen, and then turned to him hesitantly. It was clear that she didn’t know. “Which one did you want?” she asked. He told her the orange/vanilla and she cheerfully said “Oh, that’s the one! But if you get the other one, just tell her that they made a mistake.”

We pulled up to the next window. Once it opened, we were handed a cardboard cup holder with not two cups of ice cream, but four. I looked confused for a moment, and the girl said “Two vanilla, one orange, one orange/vanila, right?” I looked at Ben, and he looked at me. “Don’t get them in trouble,” he mouthed.

“That’s it,” I said cheerfully. “Thank you!” We drove off with our four ice creams and pulled over to eat two of them. Ben sampled the orange and the orange/vanilla, and decided that he liked the one he didn’t order even better. I could barely finish one, and Ben was only part way through when I suggested that we throw the other two out and begin our journey.

“No, let’s keep them,” Ben replied. “Maybe I’ll eat them along the way…”

We were passing a dumpster with the USE ONLY FOR TRASH GENERATED HERE sign. It was now or never.

Ben persisted, and won the argument. And we drove all the way back to Geneva, NY with melting, and absolutely disgusting-looking, cups of ice cream.

We were on the home stretch, and it was time to let Benjamin drive for real. He’d rescued me at the hospital the night before, but driving in a hospital parking garage is much different from driving in traffic. I pulled over and let Ben get behind the wheel. He was excited - he’d never been in a Tesla before this trip, much less driven one. Now it was finally his turn. He’d definitely earned it.

Most people think of Tesla as the car that drives itself. But that’s not entirely accurate. For an additional $10,000 USD, a feature called Full Self Driving (FSD) offers that option. But it’s in beta, and - in the opinions of many Tesla owners, not ready for prime time. Also, the feature stays with the car - not the driver - meaning those who paid for it a few years back and are ready to upgrade to a newer Tesla have been left feeling like they didn’t get their money’s worth. Tesla CEO Elon Musk has hinted that a subscription option is coming, and many owners report that they are opting to wait for that.

For me, it’s likely that even the subscription option will be too expensive. I’m also a nervous passenger - my blood pressure upon arrival is always higher when someone else drives me versus when I drive myself. As a result, I rarely sit anywhere but in the driver’s seat. Could I even let the car take control of the driving? My anxiety says that’s unlikely.

What my car does offer, though, is Autopilot. Within that is a feature called Lane Assist - it keeps the vehicle in one lane on highways and interstates, provided that there are at least two lanes and a center line. Every minute or so it requires that you touch the wheel with enough force for the Autopilot system to know that you haven’t slid into the back seat for a nap - otherwise, though, the car is very much driving itself. And, until you come to a one-lane road, it will continue to do that.

I had Ben drive without that feature activated for about twenty minutes, just to get a feel for the car. I drive with the vehicle in ‘hold’ mode; that means that, when I take my foot off the brake pedal, the car immediately begins to slow. Eventually it will stop on its own, without me ever having to touch the brake. This makes for less wear-and-tear on the brakes, meaning less replacements down the road. For me, it also means an amazingly relaxed ride. I wanted Ben to get a feel for that, and for the vehicle’s blind spots and other idiosyncrasies, before he turned it over to the computer. Once I felt he was ready, it was time to sit back and enjoy the ride. Ben finished off his ice cream and then we rode in silence for a while, watching Erie, PA disappear in our rear view mirror.

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READ ALL ABOUT THE ‘DRY RUN’ ROAD TRIP!

[Dry Run Road Trip] [Outfitting The Tesla] [Day 1: Niagara Falls] [Day 2: Route 5] [Day 2: Presque Isle] [Day 3: A Screeching Halt in Erie, PA] [Day 3: Just Another Day in Presque Paradise!] [Day 4: Time to Go…] [NYC & Post-Trip Wrap-Up]