How Far Is It To Branson?

The South County Quik-n-Go convenience store off of I-44 near Springfield, Missouri, was understandably busy. It was a warm, almost hot, Friday afternoon, late spring, and travelers were stocking up on fuel, snacks, and sundries before heading deeper into the Ozark mountains. Tourist season was coming soon, and this weekend would be a warm-up for those who made their living off those who only set foot in this part of Missouri for vacation.

"How far is it to Branson?" Jerry Delaney handed his Visa card to the cashier, a nice-looking old man who deserved to be spending his golden years doing something other than tending a cash register at a convenience store by the interstate. "About 75 miles." An hour and a half, two hours, on winding mountain roads. It was 4:30. He and his wife, Kelly, would be there by 6:30 at the latest. They had set out from St. Louis after lunch, looking forward to a relaxing long weekend of drinks, mountain scenery, and maybe a comedy show.

The wide lanes of I-44 were now replaced with a narrow state highway. Thick trees lined either side of the highway. Kelly fiddled with the radio, trying to find a station, but all that would come in was country. It would have to do.

Ten minutes or so after exiting the interstate, Jerry saw a sign. Branson: 72 miles. He sighed. He would much rather be sitting by the pool enjoying a margarita than sitting cooped up in his car listening to terrible music. The drive from St. Louis had bored him to tears; he wondered silently if Branson was worth the commitment.

A few songs. A few commercials. A few hills and a few valleys. Cresting another hill, a familiar green and white sign made its announcement. Branson: 76 miles.

"That can't be right," Jerry said. Kelly looked up from her book. "What's wrong," she said. "That sign said 76 miles. A few minutes ago it was 72 miles." Kelly returned to her book. "I wouldn't worry about it," she said.

More terrible country songs. A commercial for a farm supply store. A weather forecast (sunny and warm through Monday). More hills and valleys. Then, another sign. Branson: 81 miles.

"What the fuck?" Jerry said. Kelly once again put down her book and looked at Jerry. "Someone at the Missouri highway department needs to get fired. They need to get their fucking signs right. The longer we drive, the further from Branson we get!"

"Calm down," said Kelly. "We're going to get there. I'm sure someone just made a mistake."

The radio station was starting to break up. Good riddance, Jerry thought. But nothing else was coming in. In these thick woods, it was unlikely that anything was going to come in. Kelly shut the radio off.

Branson: 86 miles.

"What! The! Fuck!," screamed Jerry, banging on the steering wheel. "We've driven for forty five fucking minutes! And according to these goddamned signs we're farther from Branson than when we started! What the hell is going on!"

Kelly was beginning to get nervous. She had never seen Jerry come unglued like this. "Clam down!bI'm sure somebody just messed up somewhere. Maybe the guy at the convenience store was wrong?"

"I don't care how fucking wrong he was, we've driven for almost a fucking hour. We should be within, what, 30 miles now? What the fuck!"

"OK, let's just find somebody and ask them, OK?" Kelly said. "People drive this road all the time." Only then did she realize that, though the Quik-n-Go had been busy, they hadn't seen a single car on this road to Branson since they left.

Jerry reluctantly resumed driving. He fiddled with the radio station, trying to find something to keep his mind off this goddamned road. After a mile or so, he found a clearing. Parked on the side of the road was a pickup truck filled with vegetables. A middle-aged woman sat at a table, selling produce. Jerry pulled over.

"Excuse me," he said. "How far is it to Branson?"

"About 90 miles," said the woman, smiling.

Jerry lost all control. "Are you fucking kidding me! We left Springfield a fucking hour ago! We should fucking be in the fucking suburbs by now!"

Kelly jumped out of the car and ran toward Jerry. She put herself between Jerry and the woman, who looked terrified. She kept saying "Jerry! Please calm down!" as Jerry ranted and raved at the poor woman, dropping F-bombs left and right. She pushed him back into the car.

"Just drive!" she screamed. Jerry slameed the car into gear and sped away, kicking up rocks. In his rear-view mirror he could see the woman hurriedly packing up her truck.

Jerry's face was red. His hand was swollen and bloody from beating on the steering wheel. He was out of breath. Kelly just cried.

"I don't know what the fuck is going on," he said, "but we are getting off this goddamned road. Fuck Branson, fuck this trip, and fuck this wasted weekend. We're going home."

Kelly didn't know what to say, so she just meekly shook her head "yes."

After a mile or so Jerry found a dirt road leading off to someone's home. Jerry pulled in and executed a five-point turn, and headed north, toward Springfield. It was almost six. If he was lucky he'd be home by midnight. Saturday morning he'd call the hotel and try to get his deposit refunded.

A few minutes later they passed the clearing where the vegetable lady had been. Her truck was gone. To his right was a green and white sign. Springfield: 88 miles. Jerry sighed. Relieved that Branson, wherever the hell it was, was behind him.

He tried the radio once again. Nothing. Shadows cast by the trees were beginning to darken the road. A few more hills, a few more valleys. Then, another green and white sign.

Springfield: 91 miles.