The first time I made my new commute, I used a GPS app to get to work and spent my time worrying about whether I was driving fast enough but not too fast and whether the guy in the truck with all the bumper stickers actually hunts that much big game or this is all some sort of elaborate role-playing for him.
The second time I drove there, I vaguely remembered that I needed to take Exit 9 off the highway. As I drove past Exit 10, I made a mental note to keep my eye out for signs for the next exit.
Somehow, I found myself at Exit 8.
That’s odd, I thought, I must have really lost myself in singing along to that Lionel Richie cover. I couldn’t be very far from where I wanted to get off the highway, so I decided to take the exit, then circle back if I needed to.
But it turned out to be the exit I actually wanted. Weird though, how I missed Exit 9. I decided to look for it on my way home that night.
I missed it again. This time I blamed Whitesnake and visions of Tawny Kitaen dancing on the hood of a Jaguar.
I didn’t see Exit 9 the next day. This time, I blamed the podcast I was listening to. Not to go into too many details, but it turns out that pigeons are fascinating.
As one week turned into the next, though, even I couldn’t be absent-minded enough to forget about Exit 9 every single time.
It turns out, there is no Exit 9, southbound or northbound. Just a suspiciously uninteresting stretch of highway. I wondered if this was one of those no-13th-floor-in-a-hotel things, but I had vague memories of other Exit 9s on other highways so that probably wasn’t it.
I started to research the missing exit, but I stopped short when I realized that any answer I found would be a dry, profoundly boring, bureaucratic answer that would strip away another layer of my rapidly diminishing sense of childlike joy and wonder. It would have something to do with zoning, or population density, or a ballot referendum or something.
In other words, exactly the sort of cover story the government would cook up to cover the secret entrance to a covert military base, or an academy for mutants, or the entrance to an underground facility where they train sexy kung fu accountants or something. In other words, something I’m probably better off not knowing about.
But, you might ask, would the government actually be dumb enough to go to all that work and still mess up on the exit’s numbering?
Have you met our government?
It’s enough to make a vigilant citizen need a cocktail.
The Secret Exit
This is a riff on a classic drink called a Missing Link. It’s extremely simple, but also suspiciously difficult to remember the details of.
What was I supposed to pick up at the liquor store?, you might ask yourself. I really like that new drink and I’ve used up all the … all the … you know, the stuff that’s like triple sec, but not triple sec?
Almost like an agent in a black suit had hypnotized you, or something.
Ingredients
2 ounces really good rum – the best you’ve got
¾ ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
¾ ounce orange curaçao
5 drops rose water
Wet a martini glass and put it upside-down in the freezer to frost.
Add all ingredients, with ice, to a shaker. Shake, until unbearably cold.
Strain into your frosted glass.
This is one of those drinks that is at its best when you start with it blisteringly cold. At the first sip, it might seem the slightest bit too acidic. You might wonder if you should have added some simple syrup or something to mellow it out. Subsequent sips will taste more and more well-rounded, though, as it warms up and the rose esters start to hit your palate. You will make a mental note to make this drink more often.
Let’s see if you can remember to.
Featured photo: Courtesy photo.
