Tag Archives: car

Summit Road

It’s dark as the guts inside where no one sees and thick as whiskey coke number seven, and I’m looking around for God or one of his friends out here but I’m starting to think they ain’t up for thumping knuckles tonight, so here’s me and here’s a great big beautiful road and here’s my hands whipping over the wheel like I got something to say to it. I’m going up and around tonight and maybe it’s a dumb idea, but my dumb ideas always end up better than the peoples’ around me so I don’t mind too much. I figure I’ll come down the other side some time if I hold out for it. Just one lane now; there’s sticky bald tires chewing up some gravel and of course they’re mine, I’m getting way up in the mist where there’s ghosts in the headlights and it’s nice to have the company, I say to them. Nice to be included. There’s trees on my left and my right and I guess they probably keep going after that, up one way and down the other where sometimes they open up just right and you can see things that you can just grab with your eyes and turn into secrets, you should try it, I made a few tonight; I figure if I keep going I can pick up a couple more if I just try hard enough.



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Something I saw

Picture a hot day in 2006, somewhere on that stretch of the 280 between San Jose and Cupertino that’s all dirty concrete and chainlink bridges holding back people and flora. I’m driving lazily down the interstate on our way back from the mall. I’m gazing out at the other cars passing and falling behind us, and one catches my eye.

It’s a ford mustang from the sixties or seventies (I don’t know cars), the one that looks like a thunderbird but different. It must have been green or brown at some point, but it’s so caked in rust and oddly yellow dust, like a faded picture or a windowsill, that now it’s just a mottled, sad gray-brown something of what used to be a hot car. Inside, sitting on cracked leather seats, are two men.

The first man looks like an embittered version of Jimmy Corrigan’s father. A few of you know what that means. He’s an older soul, balding, with wireframe glasses, a slight paunch, and a scowl that’s sort of fizzled away into just an uncomfortably indignant look.

He isn’t speaking.

Next to him is a younger man, somewhere in his twenties or thirties. He’s thin, has long, straight, fine brown hair–almost a hippie look, but a little closer to a guy who just thought that the pony tail is a good look for men. He has thick, black rimmed glasses and a dirty T-shirt, is acne-scarred and sporting a light beard shadow over his freckled face. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or comfortable, his face is a complete, almost slackjawed neutral.

He isn’t speaking.

And they’re heading silently down the 280 on a hot pre-summer day.


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"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living."- Jonathan Safran Foer. || student, loves travelling and perhaps baking a cake.||

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