Edited; added second part
The Driver
It's been said that there are as many worlds as there are choices, and that we occasionally dream of the ones we didn't make. Not all of them, of course, but the ones that both have a profound impact on our lives and could have truly gone either way. Those choices, if not for one factor, would have led our lives in a completely different direction. This was the secondary track my mind was on as I drove through the twists and turns of the night road.
It was a state road, winding through the forests of northern
Sometimes I wish I could have lived my life like this, launching myself through every decision by instinct, but I drive on the road of life during the day, when there are other drivers out. And so I have to watch out for them, give their lives the right of way when it isn't my turn. I have to follow the signs during the day. I have to signal my decisions to avoid collisions, and I have to slow down when those ahead of me brake. I feel obligated to stop and help when another breaks down, give them a jump start to continue their trip. Sometimes I even have to let someone else take the wheel, as embarrassing as it is to lose control. My route through life has to be thought out, so I don't waste fuel or get lost. Thus, through planning and some careful driving, my life took a route to lead me a certain way. One group of friends rather than another. One college, instead of another. One night, instead of another. It led me to her.
We still aren't entirely sure exactly how we met. We knew each other through mutual friends, I suppose, but we were never really introduced to each other. We shared no classes, only acquaintances, and no activities save for small events at the dorms or the coffee shop. Eventually, an attraction seemed to grow out of what one did and didn't know about the other. There would be mild flirtation when we'd meet in friends' dorm rooms or the odd meal, but neither of us really pursued the other for quite awhile, for reasons of our own, or simply for a lack of convenience. One night in January, however, something possessed me to go with back to her dorm for a movie with her and some other friends. Maybe it was boredom, maybe it was curiosity. Whatever the reason I took that turn, that night placed us closer than we had been before, and there was nothing to hold either of us back. After that, we approached each other more carefully, the innocent and meaningless banter no longer coming easily. A month and a half would pass before we allowed ourselves to get that close again. Our relationship was slow to start as we tried to figure out where it would take us. The first year of college was nearly over, and we were wary of what summer would bring. Never the less, love eventually took the wheel, and here we are.
She sat silently next to me. Perhaps she was tired, or perhaps my driving frightened her, or maybe she just let me have my concentration, unaware that moving like this was second nature. I wondered what she was thinking, what went through her mind as the scenery flitted by like a slippery memory, or deja vu; you knew you'd seen it, but suddenly it was gone and no longer mattered. I glanced over at her every once in a while; she was just looking straight ahead with her book in her lap, with no light to read it by. Maybe she watched the road in apprehension, should I not notice any danger the night road could throw at me. I suppose it would have been simple as asking her what was on her mind, but I let silence prevail. It was almost as though the awkwardness from nearly half a year before, when all we really knew about each other was our mutual attraction. How much more did we know now? After several months, my puns and corny jokes made her groan, but she loved me anyway. I knew a bit more about her family and social history, and loved the woman that her past had made her. And yet, we've never had any hardship greater than the distance between us during the summer months. What differences have we not discovered? What terrible argument will either sever our connection or make it stronger? I learned a long time ago not to fear the future, but I never grew out of wondering.
My mind continued to wander as I turned off of the winding road and onto the interstate, joining other late night travelers and semi-trucks. Still, she was silent. It irked me, slightly. I could never really get in her head, I never knew what she was thinking. I’d ask, and she’d say she didn’t know. She never knew, or she just wouldn’t tell me. I guess it’s not that big a deal, I don’t really have to know everything about her, but sometimes I felt like I didn’t know anything. I knew about her past, I knew her family, I knew our mutual friends, but all that was really just context. There was no content. What did I know about her?
We soon reached our half-way point, and I had become weary. I checked us into a hotel at 3:30 am. I flicked through the infomercials and old movies as she brushed her teeth. My thoughts were as scattered as ever as I prepared for bed. She turned the TV off, and crawled under the covers, and I forgot my thoughts of the past and ever changing future. She truly is beautiful, her body fitting perfectly in my arms, and her kiss enough to make me forget anything that troubled me. All those thoughts returned afterward, however, the choices and what if's swirling in my mind as I drifted to sleep, and I dreamed.
The Passenger
We were lost at the very beginning. He didn’t believe me at first, and then he took forever to turn around. It was as simple as turning the wrong way right out of the park, and it probably took him twenty miles before he was convinced that the scenery wasn’t unfamiliar just because it was dark. It didn’t seem to be out of stubbornness, though. He was distracted. He had been all week, really, but I didn’t think to say anything about it. It was too dark to read, so I just looked ahead, watching the road.
Everything looks different in the dark. You only see outlines of things, and your mind sort of fills in the blanks. He was kind of like that sometimes, always assuming something was up because I’d sigh a certain way, or not react to something. Really, it wouldn’t mean anything, I don’t think about that sort of thing. I wish he’d just trust me to let him know if something was up. That was a thing about him, he always had to be part of something, he couldn’t just watch. Always had to ask, couldn’t just listen. He always had to know, and some times there just wasn’t anything to know, or say.
We stopped for gas, and he got something caffeinated to keep him awake for the drive. It was an under-used, twisted state road, so we didn’t know when we’d get to the next town or gas station. His car didn’t have any real cup holders, just one that would slide into the window, so I’d have to pass him the drink whenever he wanted some. It was getting close to two in the morning, but I stayed awake to pass him his drink and keep him company. We listened to my iPod set up with some speakers; his old corvair didn’t have a working radio. I had him listen to the original
I didn’t mind the silence so much. Normally, he wouldn’t shut up, so I found it kind of soothing. I was content to just stay up with him, two quiet consciousnesses appreciating each other’s presence. I had no constant need to know what he was thinking. I could usually guess, and I only asked if it really mattered. That was his problem, I guess, assuming that everything mattered, everything was a big deal, every thought I had was important to him. You’d think that would be a good thing, right? So much concern for everything I thought? It gets to you, though. And I don’t know that he really heard me any time I’d answer, like he was just content that I’d respond. But times like this, they were nice. We didn’t have to say anything. We could just be.
Eventually, the road turned into a highway. On the one hand, it was nice to be out of the woods and have some ambient light. On the other, it was an excuse to drive even faster. A little Jetta pulled in front of us, and he raced. I gripped my arm rest as he weaved us between semi-trucks and chased the other car. Saying something wouldn’t do any good; he liked going fast. I had no idea how fast we were going, the little speedometer only went up to 100, and the pointer bounced around up there as we raced. He claims to have never crashed in his life, but it still scares the crap out of me. It sort of seemed like he enjoyed that aspect of it, got some weird thrill out of scaring me shitless. Eventually he stopped, content with the knowledge that he could keep up in this old thing and proud of his own ability.
His pride got to me, sometimes. He seemed to act differently when he had an audience. It never seemed like he was starved for attention, but he certainly enjoyed it when he had it. I never bugged him about it, but he wasn’t self-conscious about anything. Sometimes, though, I was embarrassed on his behalf. Still, I had no control over that, no more control than I had over his driving.
We stopped at a hotel in
