An Introduction of Sorts

Every story begins on the way somewhere. Between where you are going and where you were.  Sometimes you’re on the road, driving.  Maybe because driving is therapeutic.  When you are driving, you have time to think, time to reflect.  It’s when you talk to yourself, or you talk to your companion, the road.  There are times when I like to driving in complete silence, just the sound of the engine and the tires on the highway.  Other times, I need music.  Loud music that I can sing to at the top of my lungs; because I am angry or full of some exuberant emotion.  Then, there are the times when I’m sad, and it’s hard to see the road through my tears.  Driving is perfect for when I’m sad, and I want to escape or go somewhere that I feel safe.  Just me and the road.  And I love my car, because it takes me there.   

I bought a new car a few months ago.  I drove away from the car lot singing, “I got a new car, I got a new car…”  I sang that song for miles.  For days.  I still thank God a few times a week for that car, even though I’m not entirely sure what kind of terms He/She and I are on these days.  Me and the road have a new vehicle for going places, and we love going places.  New places.  Old places.  I prefer driving fast on smooth pavement, but I’m very understanding of occasional potholes and dirt roads.  Nobody’s perfect, and after all, variety is supposed to add spice to life.  It may even add character.  That’s another reason the road and I get along so well.  There is no judgment here.  I don’t have to be anyone but me.  My occasional tears don’t embarrass the road, and it doesn’t flinch when I yell out, “Fuck you, Motherfucker!” at the car that just cut me off.

My windows are down today.  The wind is blowing my hair all over the place, a few strands keep getting in my face, but I like them there.  I am leaving the parking lot of the bookstore.  An hour and a half in there, and I walked out bored and empty handed.  Hundreds of books, and nothing I feel like reading.  I guess you just have to be in the right mood.  Besides, lately, there probably isn’t enough room in my head for imagining someone else’s world.  Mine is taking up too much space.  I fight the urge to throw my head back and close my eyes, as I take a deep, cleansing breath.  Mmm, that felt good.  I turn up the car stereo.  I love this song.  I wonder for a minute what people think when they pass by and see me completely lost in the music.  I love driving like this, it’s invigorating.  Some people start their day with a cup of coffee or the newspaper and cigarette.  All I need is the road.  Me and the road.

I think it makes sense that my story begins on the road.  I have spent more time there than anywhere. There are always those typical questions people love to ask, when they first meet you.  First, it’s, “What your name?” and then, “So, where are you from?” I know that no one really wants an essay answer, so I typically, reply with something like, “Oh, everywhere…” Well, maybe I should just start saying that I grew up on the road.  Yeah, that’s where I’m from.  I’m a gypsy, a nomad.  It’s kind of exciting and intriguing.  After all, that is where I go when I feel like I don’t really know where I belong.  So, I’ll begin my story with the only place that feels like home.