My straw has a hole in it.
I mean a hole aside from the intended one running end to end.
An extra teeny-tiny hole that makes it five times harder to get the liquid out of the cup.
I’m driving. I don’t believe I'm coordinated enough to drink from a cup without a lid.
I believe I’d fumble the cup, water spilling into my lap and down into the seat.
Water and computers don’t mix well.
This vehicle has a computer in the driver’s seat that buzzes my butt if I’m too far left or right, or if I’m coming up on a car too fast.
It’s a pushy seat, come to think of it.
And Siri keeps telling me there are railway crossings ahead. Which I can clearly see and do not need to be told about.
It would be nice if Siri would answer the random curiosity questions that pop into my head while I’m behind the wheel instead of “I can check on that when you’re done driving.”
I love how he assumes I’m incapable of handling new knowledge and navigating at night simultaneously.
Doesn’t he know I won’t remember these questions when I’m done driving and after my car has buzzed my butt repeatedly?
I take another sip, since I won’t be learning the answer to “How much weight can a two-humped camel handle?” until I’ve parked and remember to ask Siri again.
It’s regular water, but it’s been aerated thanks to the extra hole in my straw. I contemplate removing the lid again, but remember the computer under me and put up with the straw.
“Railway crossing ahead.”
Yes, Siri. I see it.
My seat buzzes. Left cheek.
I nudge the wheel right to get it to stop.
Siri and my seat are more annoying than Little Miss Muse, who happens to be riding in the back, spilling grape soda all over the seats, but at least those don’t have computers in them.
“When will we get home?” She stretches out a length of chewed bubble gum from her mouth, twirls it around her finger, then stuffs it back in. “I have so many ideas…”
She’s eager to get back to the writing desk, as am I, but I really need to know the answer to the camel question and I’m afraid I’ll forget.
“Close. Can’t give you an exact ETA. Ask Siri.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that while you’re driving.” At least Siri doesn’t listen to Little Miss either.
My seat buzzes my right cheek.
I nudge the wheel left, and now the driver’s-side door mirror blinks that something is in my blind spot.
Nothing is in my blind spot.
I ask Siri why this might happen.
“I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
“But you have yet another railway crossing ahead. And a second one before you arrive at your destination, whereupon I will tell you about the camel.”
Blink. Buzz.
Hole in my straw.
Cantankerous Siri.
Another sip of water through the straw.
Life should be simpler than this.
“Hey, Siri? How much does a straw weigh?”
“I’ll give you that information along with the camel specs just as soon as you cross that last railway and park the car. Oh. You may have to ask me the questions all over again.”
Little Miss chuckles; this time the gum falls out of her mouth.
I lift the cup and bite down on the straw. Chomping on something may relieve my angst.
I cross the last railway, after a fourteenth reminder from Siri and another two buzzes to my butt.
I pull into my drive, park, and turn off the car.
Little Miss is out and into the house to torment the cats faster than I can open my door.
“Hey, Siri?”
“Is this about that camel again?”
“Yes.”
I swing my legs out and stand and stretch as I listen to my long-awaited answer.
“Since you safely navigated the railway crossings, I’ll give you the rundown on double-humped Bactrian specs. A camel of this sort can generally pack 550 pounds for daily workload and 990 for short distances. A drinking straw weighs 0.0015 ounces (as opposed to a sprig of field straw which weighs 0.00035 ounces).”
He pauses for a minute. I take one more effort-filled sip before taking the straw from the lid with that hollow squeak of plastic against plastic filling the garage.
“Shall I continue?”
“Certainly.”
I know what I’m after.
He knows what I’m after.
“Here is the math you requested:
550-pound ordinary load:
550 × 16 = 8,800 ounces. So 8,800 ÷ .0015 = 5.87 million drinking straws, while 8,800 ÷ .00035 = 25.14 million sprigs of field straw.
990 pounds, pushing the camel to its short-distance limit:
990 × 16 = 15,840 ounces. So 15,840 ÷ .0015 = 10.56 million drinking straws, while 15,840 ÷ .00035 = 45.26 million sprigs of field straw.
The straw that breaks your particular camel's back has somewhere between roughly 5.9 million and 45.3 million accomplices, depending on what kind of straw you’re packing and how hard you work your camel. I have seen your camel. You might want to consider—”
I hold up my hand.
He pauses.
I pause, examining my holey straw.
I can feel the smugness dripping from my Siri. Little Miss Muse is glaring at me through the door, impatient to get to work. Two cats are behind her, reminding me Tuna Time is late. I have five missed calls and that driver’s side mirror is blinking again.
I feel my shoulders tense and my jaw clench. I stuff the straw in my mouth and start chomping again.
“I strongly recommend you offload your camel.” He pauses while my shoulders kiss my earlobes. “No matter the kind of straw.”
