Saturday, May 24, 2014

Focus ...

Chuck's car zips. Zero to 30 with a nasally rev. It's a windows down car, best driven barefoot. His floormats want to be gritty with pebbles, but this is the kind of thing Chuck doesn't let happen to his car. He's got a handmade Dylan mix in the CD player, decades-worth of music in no specific order. Here Dylan sounds strong; Here Dylan chuckles mid-song; Here Dylan sounds like a moped; Here Dylan is mad-sad or maybe sad-mad.

Fact: You cannot comfortably fit a car seat into his car.

Your car makes me want to drive fast, I tell him. Your car makes me think I'm a person who does shots. Tequila. I never have to pay for them. Your car makes me feel free. Your car is a totally different life, like I split in half at a fork on a country road. Left likes Adult Contemporary or MPR and totes a tot who is forever gumming a giraffe named Sophie and cannot get from Point A to Point B without removing her shoes and socks. Right is zipping around in this car, this speed racer, listening to "Visions of Johanna" and zigzagging the country from open couch to open couch.

"Don't go running off," he says.
"No way," I say. "These things are only fun in your head."

He kind of knows what I'm talking about. He's felt the zip. He's involuntarily rolled down the window. He knows the score. He's the one who made this mix.

He sums it up:

"When I'm in that car, it's just me."

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