The Drive Home

Is today Wednesday or Thursday? God, the days all blur together. What’s left of whatever day it is glows red and orange in the review mirror. Up ahead, the sky is already an inky blackness, being pulled across the sky. Another deceased day being placed in a body bag.

When you’re a kid, one year feels like an eternity. Even a month is a staggering amount of time, especially if you’re anxiously waiting for something. And when aren’t you anxiously waiting for something when you’re a kid? Birthdays, Christmas, summer vacation, and being an adult. Of course, as an adult, time moves completely differently. It’s aggressively fast, but with far less to look forward to. I used to try to slow down time. I knew I couldn’t actually slow down time, but I could try to slow down my perception of time. I would sit and stare or count slowly. I wanted time to pass the way it did when I was a child. It never worked very well.

November, arguably the worst of the twelve. A month on the precipice of winter. A reminder that another year is nearing its end. The nights get longer, colder. The leaves have almost all fallen, leaving the trees skeletal save for the occasional brown leaf still clinging to one of its long, bony fingers.

Every day I wake up, brush my teeth, shower, and get dressed. I make coffee. I eat whatever requires the least amount of effort, and then drive to work. Our bodies were designed to traverse all sorts of terrain. They can climb, swim, run, and jump, but mine sits at a desk hunched over a keyboard. At lunch, I sit in my car and scroll through my phone, thinking about how much I hate scrolling through my phone. At six o'clock, my empty coffee thermos and I make the forty-minute drive home down Route 64 through rural Virginia, to a suburb of half-empty strip malls and houses that all look the same.

Another song comes on: "Ball and Chain" by Social Distortion. I swear this song has already played..

I look at the clock on my dashboard, 6:23. Another seventeen minutes of this, and then I’ll finally have a couple of hours for myself. Not that I’ll do anything worthwhile with those hours. After eight hours of responding to emails and daydreaming through meetings, I’m left feeling dead inside.

I hardly have to pay attention anymore - muscle memory. Just like the playlist on the radio, it’s the same songs on repeat again and again. I hate to complain. Things aren’t that bad; it’s just not what I expected, but it’s also exactly what I expected. Ever since childhood, this is what they prepare you for. A job, working hard every day so that you can make someone else rich, in return, they give you just enough to get by. Your schooling, your talents, your time, your existence; they benefit someone else more than they benefit you. This is the American dream they’ve been trying to sell you on since birth. If you work hard enough and save your money, someday, you’ll be able to afford a coffin.

It’s 6:25 now. Odd, I should be seeing the lights of urban sprawl by now, but all I see are trees.

Your brain uses so much energy that, to operate more efficiently, it essentially shuts down the areas that aren’t needed. That’s why you go into a sort of autopilot when you do the same things again and again. It’s why sometimes you get to where you’re going without remembering much of the commute. Still, none of this looks familiar.

There aren’t any other cars on the two-lane highway. It’s just me on this unlit rural stretch of road.

A new song begins to play - “Well, it's been ten years and a thousand tears and look at the mess I'm in”. I don’t remember what the last song was. The clock reads 6:33. I should be almost home. Something isn’t right.

I press the gas pedal a little harder. I’m driving faster than I should, but I’m eager to get to somewhere recognizable.

Despite far exceeding the speed limit, I feel like I’m treading water. Like the recurring dream I have where I’m trying to run, but my body feels like it’s weighed down. I know I need to move faster. I’m desperate to move faster, but the harder I try to move, the slower I go.

Another three minutes have passed. Where is the exit with the old gas station? My foot applies even more pressure to the pedal, and I reach ninety miles per hour.

Five more minutes pass by. Mike Ness is singing “I'm lonely and I'm tired. And I can't take any more pain.”

I grab my phone, I’ll get directions home, or to the nearest gas station. At the very least, the GPS will tell me where exactly I am.

No service, and the GPS is spinning. The mountains must be interfering with the signal.

It’s 6:45, Social Distortion starts playing “Ball and Chain”. I should have been home five minutes ago. I should be in my living room, sitting on my couch. Where the fuck am I?

I need to turn around. I’m obviously going the wrong direction.

Slowing down, looking for a place to make a U-turn. “You can run all your life, but not go anywhere.” Thanks for reminding me, Mike.

I make a quick U-turn, not a car in sight.

My foot smashes the pedal into the floorboard. The engine roars.

I’ll drive back to Staunton. Checking the clock, it’s 6:52. I left work almost an hour ago, and now I’m heading back in that direction, but at least it’s a direction. I know what direction I’m going.

Ninety-four miles an hour, I shouldn’t go any faster. I can’t see anything beyond my headlights.

Social Distortion continues to play. I turn off the radio.

My eyes burn, and my hands are beginning to cramp from clenching the wheel too tightly.

I catch the clock as it changes from 7:12 to 7:13. “Ball and Chain” bleeds from the car’s speakers. I turn it up. There is nothing but the silhouettes of trees for as far as my headlights will reach. No signs, just an endless black ribbon of cracked asphalt.

My mind drifts back to junior high. My arms, full of books, ache, and I still have another long hallway to walk down before I reach my class. It feels like I’ll never get there. I’m sure my weak little arms will give out, and I’ll drop all my stuff in front of the other kids. Each second feels like a lifetime. I tell myself, someday I’ll look back and remember this moment, this moment that I felt would never end, and it will have ended years ago. I’ll get through this. Every painful experience eventually becomes nothing but a distant memory.

It’s 7:46. I haven’t seen anything but trees. Maybe I should turn around again. Or did I already turn back around? The radio lets me know that “times are hard, getting harder.”

The car’s compass says I’m heading east. I must have turned around already. I’ll be home any minute now. Wait, I don’t remember turning around.

The next song begins playing on the radio, “Ball and Chain” by Social Distortion.

My gas light is on. How long has it been on? Should I turn around and find a gas station, or do I have enough fuel to make it home? I think I can make it home, but according to my compass, I’m headed west again.

This can’t be right. It’s after eight o’clock, and I don’t remember the last time I saw a sign for an exit. I need to turn around.

I make another U-turn. The compass on the instrument panel says east. At least I’m going in the right direction now.

8:44. The car chokes, coughs; a death rattle before the engine goes silent, and I coast to a stop. It’s cold, and a light snow has started to fall.

I’m walking. I have no other choice. I can’t see much. The moon and stars are hidden behind clouds. These books are so heavy, my arms are shaking. Maybe I’ll turn around and go back to the car.

My phone says it’s 10:20. I should have reached the car by now. Did I pass it without noticing? It must be in the other direction. I decide to turn around and head back toward the car.

12:16. It’s too dark to tell, but I think I’m almost home.

There is whispering from behind the trees. No, it is the trees. Better walk in the center of the road, as far from the trees as I can.

I look at my phone, 1:02. I should be getting close. My next class is just at the end of this hall.

The music is so loud. I need to turn it down, but the volume button is in the car.

My head is going in the opposite direction from my body.

The wind slices through my flesh, piercing my bones with its icy blade. I don’t bother to check the time. My eyes are heavy, my legs weigh a thousand pounds. I need to rest for a couple of minutes.

I sit down on cold pavement and lean against an old guardrail. Snow falls. The fat white flakes are in stark contrast to the towering black trees on either side of the road. I don’t remember where I put my books, but I’m glad I’m not still carrying them.

Looking to my left, I can see the peaks of several tall trees, a spider web of cracks across the surface of the road, and a section of damaged guardrail. To my right, a perfect mirrored image.

I close my eyes.

“But wherever I have gone, I was sure to find myself there,” sings the voice on the radio. I’ll be home soon.

—-

This story is autobiographical. The events detailed above happen to me every day on my way home from work. The truth is, some of it actually is autobiographical. The part about carrying the heavy books and making a conscious decision in that moment to recognize that the long walk down that hallway will someday be ancient history. That’s something that I actually did in sixth grade on my way to shop class. The recurring dream of trying to run but being unable to is also something that I’ve had throughout my life. I’m pretty sure that’s a common dream for a lot of people.

Unsurprisingly, this story is about finding yourself living a life that is unfamiliar to you. I think we all feel this way at various stages in life. Sometimes, you go further down a road than you intend to. Or you think you’re headed in one direction, only to end up somewhere else entirely. The hard part is finding your way back.