You remember the way the seats in the green Dodge Dart burned the back of your thighs in the summer. You remember your sweat and brother sweat and parent sweat and dog sweat; one endless pant as hour upon hour you drove through the Dakota Badlands on an August day in a vehicle with no conditioning.
You remember how on the way back from practice, or the grocery store, or a friends place, you would always find yourself at the start of the long straight road by the university. The one that ran adjacent the forest and had no stoplights for miles. You remember the feel of gas peddle underfoot, the slow creep of the speedometer, the curiosity to see if you could really do 100, and the determination to find out. You remember the way the steering wheel would quake and the entire car would siezure trying to tear itself apart as you approached 80; the protest howl of the engine as you passed 90.
You remember that moment of inattention, that split second after you parked and opened the drivers door. Your intention of exiting the vehicle temporarily suspended as you reach to retrieve the rental documents for the goalie gear in the trunk. The stretch of your arm causes your body to shift ever so slightly; ever so imperceptibly away from the outer edge of the drivers seat, toward the center of the car and away from 3000 pounds of Ford Mustang that smashes the door head on, severs one of its hinges clean in two, mangles the other beyond recognition. Its momentum launches the driver’s side door onto the hood of the Dodge.
Your remember the dirt roads by the cabin on the lake where you first learned to drive. You would see people riding horses, crossing from one back country trail to the next. Pickup trucks with beds piled high with lumber, or straw, or gravel pass you fast as you struggle to keep the rubber of your tires in contact with the muddy road. Sometimes you steer straight on the straights and slightly turn the wheel to round the corners. Other times you drift off track, too far over, ride high up on the rolling mounds of earth, the edges of fields with waist high grasses and wild lilac and groves of poplar trees – unsure which way to turn the wheel. No idea how to find the road again.
You remember the ride home. Up the hill and then down from yet another easter-christmas-thanksgiving-long weekend-birthday get together with the cousins. Quiet in the back seat you listen to your parents assessment of the evening. And you wish more than anything that he would just speak his mind, call “bull shit!”, say things like “fuck no!” and “hell ya!” right there at the dining room table in front of everyone.
John's Writing 