Driving in Cars With Girls
Written June 27, 2003

Silence.

An industrial wasteland speeds by to the left and to the right while the dull glow of a million and one streetlights reaches lazily into the horizon, painting the boundaries of the cracked asphalt highway with bland yellows and sanitary whites. In the distance, hideous pillars of grey and brown stealthily force their gaseous contents into the haze that already bears the mark of being heavily laden with bile and pregnant with poison. Hamilton is a fucking ugly city and the air brings tears to my eyes as it screams pain into every human sense it can claw itself into, especially my poor assailed nose.

More silence.

The Golden Arches flicker past with their mocking promise of dirt-cheap sustenance that’s practically guaranteed to tie your intestines in knots within an hour after you eat. A brief craving flashes through the twisted synapses of my brain like an I-ROC barreling down a desert highway, a free spirit on a mission of mindless consumption.

However, all is lost. The newly conceived driver suddenly hits a roadblock cop in aviator glasses who screams “You don’t want McDonalds! They used to put cocaine in that shit and that’s why you’re hooked!” and hesitates in its inexperience just long enough to fly off the road, the I-ROC tumbling into oblivion amidst the cacti and eons of dust. I had obviously lied to myself – it was Coca-Cola who used to white-snuff their product, not Mickey D’s – but by this point it didn’t matter. The impulse lay shattered and silent amongst a trillion of its brethren.

Back in the real world the fluorescent curvaceous M with a boastful body count of billions served was already out of sight, retreating along the neon path into the gathering darkness behind us. It didn’t matter – I wouldn’t have extended this exercise in awkwardness any longer than necessary if I had been literally starving to death.

The silence is growing unbearable, gathering weight like a brightly colored balloon slowly filling with water. However, there’s no accompanying sense of eager anticipation or the knowledge that eventually the balloon will explode oh-so-satisfyingly in someone’s face like a glorious geyser of good natured maliciousness. In fact, I’m beginning to come to the unhappy conclusion that if this gluttonous metaphorical balloon that hangs between us exceeds its capacity and pops, I’ll be the one getting soaked. And not in the good way.

I glance over and she’s driving with her eyes pasted firmly to the road before her, earnestly navigating the road with an unnecessary intensity and seemingly concentrating her entire mental capacity on a task that I know anyone has to have mastered at an instinctive level by this point in life. As if my brief scrutiny had the power to break her self-induced trance, she turns to meet my gaze and half-smiles, her lips moving ever-so-slightly upwards while her eyes remain impassive and shielded.

For an instant I imagine that I can see an entire atmosphere laid out behind these murky blue force fields, clouds spinning and whirling chaotically through a vast and endless depth in an intricate performance without an audience, people getting occasional glimpses from time to time but nobody ever witnessing the entire show. It’s somehow one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen and I quickly offer the cursory response grin to her act of recognition before turning away and trying to inconspicuously shake off the feeling that I’ve just been hit in the face with a sledgehammer.

The air is even more oppressive than before, the humidity and staleness pressing itself upon me like a gigantic hand slowly crushing the life out of an insect. Somehow the car windows are down but the vehicle still feels like the inside of a rotisserie grill, making me the sacrificial turkey slowly turning on a spit while I’m roasted to juicy, tender perfection. The imaginary scent of cranberry sauce and stuffing briefly wafts through my starved mind before being beaten down by the harsh reality of industrial byproducts and repulsive smog.

Scenery flies by, first in slow motion and then in an intense burst of light speed. Time moves forwards, then backwards, then stands on its head in a show of ridiculous solidarity. I’ve been in this exact same car with this exact same girl for my entire life, for a nanosecond, in a past life and in my dreams.

God it’s hot, and I appear to be going insane. I quickly rush through a mental checklist of the day’s activities to verify my sobriety and come up positive – a naturally functioning body and mind without external alteration - although all these weird psychological tangents are possible unhappy indicators of heatstroke or chemical brain damage from the air.

Or maybe my brain is rebelling against the fact that it’s being forced to sit, largely unused, for the better part of an hour in a scorching vehicle with a girl whom it has absolutely no connection with anymore, nothing to converse about. She’s mouthing the words to a Simple Plan song now, silently tracing the lyrical ineptitude of the catchy no-brainer with an inexplicable undertone of sincerity and vigor; “I’m just a kid, and life is a nightmare…”

Idly I wonder when she had turned the radio on, suddenly realizing that the same cycle of tin-can hits has been dutifully rotating for the entire trip and my subconscious has mercifully trained myself to completely tune them out in a compulsory spasm of evolution.

Adapt to survive – one of the fundamental aspects of successful life and one which humans have reduced to an intellectual level. No more spontaneously growing extra limbs or sensory organs for us, it’s the mind that twists and warps to accommodate the changing faces of society and the world. And my mind had thoughtfully decided to save me from the radio.

Christ, I must have unwittingly said some of that aloud because Simple Plan is forgotten for the mom ent and she’s giving me quite a few strange looks as she merges off the highway. Once she’s locked back into the standard flow of traffic she half turns towards me, random strands of plum-black hair falling into her eyes as she quizzically purses her lips in preparation to finally break the endless silence.

“What?”

I still remember that one balmy summer night... Anyways, I get the distinct feeling that this isn't finished, but looking at it now I can't think of a more fitting conclusion. It has finished itself.