Shut Up and Drive

Magnify

I drove through my 17th year, avoiding anger, racing restlessness, letting the wind style my hair. My girl was an old maroon hatchback named Sparky - bruised and dusty, and covered in odd bumper stickers with messages of love for dinosaurs, card games and reggae, even though none of those things really meant that much to me.

Our house had just split up. Dad moved into a shabby apartment in a bad neighborhood, carrying with him a suitcase and one cardboard box - inside, everything Stephen King had ever written, a few records and a pastel drawing of me, done on an early family trip to Las Vegas. Suddenly touched by the idea of a daughter, he called frequently that year, often with dark thoughts. I wasn’t as understanding then as I am now: You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

Theirs was a marriage not of love, but of really good bridge partnership. I mean really good. Together, they won the World Championship, gold medals and all. And after 23 years, they wanted more.

Mom dated immediately, with relief and relish and fresh perfume. She had a new boyfriend - tall, dark and don’t make me say it. His name was Jim and he came over after work for wine and the fireplace and Linda Ronstadt. Mom was spinning night and day, school-girl goofy and drunk on newfound sexual satisfaction. In theory, I was happy for her, but I had to get out of there.

Nearly every night I’d leave the couple to their quiet dinner, grabbing a cold bagel for myself. I don’t remember what I’d say, whether it was studying, a date or a trip to the gym. Most likely, I just said I was going out. Both my parents always gave me a liberal amount of freedom, which smelled suspiciously of indifference.

Nestled into Sparky’s faux suede interior, I could breathe - deep, synthetic, suntan lotion breaths. My car was never without one of those hanging cardboard trees - always yellow, always coconut. The tape player was jammed, but music was a must, so I drove with my little white boom box in the passenger seat.

When you’re 17, songs make you feel infinite and empty and swelling. They make you write bad poetry and direct imaginary music videos. In the car, a certain song would stick, not in my head but in my heart, and I’d have to rewind and fast-forward the tape back and forth - one hand on the wheel - until I got to just the right place.