Drums for Days

“This T. Rex song, man. This one has drums for days”, you say as you turn the radio up.

It’s another one of those things you say that I’m not really sure how to respond to.

“Yeah”, I pause, “sure does”. But before I even finish the “ah” on “yeah” you’ve already turned the radio up to such an obscene volume that you couldn’t have possibly heard the rest of it. Even so, you give me an obligatory “yeah” and finish playing the drum part on the steering wheel.

We are 10 minutes outside of Olympia, Washington and we aren’t stopping until we hit Portland.

You’re listening to 97.8 HITS FM. Good hits, great oldies.

You turn the radio down suddenly.

“Oldies my ass! I was 14 when that album came out”

“Yeah”, I search for words. “What’s next? Nirvana?”

“Huh?”, you ask before answering your own question. “Oh, yeah. Ha. Tell me about it”

Chuck Dobson here with a quick weather update for you. Looks like high winds expected tonight with showers off and on. So, in other words…don’t go out if you don’t have to.

“How’s the stuff looking back there?”

“Huh?”

“In the bed of the truck”

I roll down the window and look behind me. That blue tarp you insisted on is flapping around like crazy. My IKEA coffee table is getting wet.

“Uh”, I say while ducking back in, “It’s fine”.

“Staying dry?”

“Looks like it”

“I bet you’re happy we took that tarp of mine now, huh?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad” We sit in silence for a few more seconds before I start wondering if this should be a touching moment or not. A man's only son moving out of the house to go to college in the big city. Is this a bonding experience?

Without realizing it at first, we have pulled off into a rest stop. When I finally figure out we aren’t moving anymore, you are already gone. In the bathroom no doubt. I take this opportunity to get out and stretch my legs. After some stretches I sprawl out on the hood of the old pick-up. Before too long I feel a presence next to me and look over to see you lighting a cigarette, sitting beside me. You silently try to pass me the cigarette, to take a drag off of it.

“You know I don’t smoke”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. I forgot”, you respond with each word coming about 10 seconds apart from one another. You seem different, distant.

“Is everything o.k?”

“Huh?”, you pause, “yeah. I’m fine. Why?”

“You just seem…down, I guess”

“Well,” you take what feels like an impossibly long drag off your cigarette before you continue, “I mean, I guess I ain’t exactly thrilled that my wife got sick of me, packed up and moved to Arizona and now my son is packing up and moving off to Or-ee-gone”

The honesty of this hits me like a brick.

“Oh,” I struggle for words, “I mean, it’s not cause of you, Dad. I love you. I just…I need to try something different”

You take another long drag while staring up at the darkening sky.

“I know. I was your age once…”, you trail off. I sense a story coming on but instead I get a face full of smoke. I cough in response and it seems to snap you back into reality.

“That’s how I met your Mother, you know? Moving to the big city”

“What?”

“When I was 23 I was sick of living in the sticks. 23 years of Moline, Illinois is about 22 years more than anybody ever needs to get their fill of it”

I laugh at this and it makes you break into a half smile.

“So…I packed up and moved to Chicago. Your Mother had an ad in the paper for a used bed she was selling. Now in those days I didn’t have a pot to piss in let alone a bed so I called her up and charmed her from $50 down to $20. When I come to pick the damn thing up, I step out of the car and she is the most beautiful gal I’d ever seen. And there’s some pretty girls in the Midwest. But back then I didn’t have the nerve that I do now so I just sweated and stammered my way through the transaction and went on home. Few nights later my Brother comes up to visit, help me settle in. You know, Uncle Danny?”

“Yeah”

“Well, you wouldn’t know it to look at him now but in those days Danny could drink with the best of them. So, his last night in the big city we go on down to damn near every bar we find and get 3 sheets to the wind and Danny says ‘Hey, Brother. You best call that girl of yours. The one with the bed. Unless you are yella?’. And I’m so full of gin that I go ahead and do it. And before you know it, we’re sharing that bed she sold me”

“You should have asked for half your money back”

You laugh hard at this with the lungs of a veteran smoker. It eventually dissolves into a series of coughs and grunts. You compose yourself and add, “and not much longer after that we had you”.

“So, I was born in Chicago?”

“Yeah. But we moved out of there pretty quick. Up to Washington before you were old enough to even spit”

“Why?”

“Well, we’d both gotten sick of Chicago by then and my buddy Dave Nechack, he told me that I could probably get a job real easy at Boeing with him. So we loaded up the car and gave it a shot”

Without referencing time or lateness or the road, you stand up and toss your cigarette into the gutter and remove the keys from your pocket. I follow you into the truck and shortly after that the radio finds its way back on.

97.3 HITS FM. Good hits, great oldies. It’s closing in on 8pm here in rainy Washington. It is nasty out there. Right here is some “Jackie Blue”to brighten your night. By the Ozark Mountain Daredevils.

We pull out onto the highway as you turn the radio up again. I admire the way the trees look illuminated by headlights.

“Man, where the hell they playing Buddy Holly and Richie Valens? The classical station?”, you yell.

“Yeah,’ I say it without really thinking. Then the joke catches up with me and I laugh.

“Hey, how much longer 'til Portland you think?”

“Oh,” you check your watch, “About an hour. An hour til you start your new life”. I feel your hand on my shoulder and it startles me.

“O.k.”

97.3 HITS FM. A quick traffic update for you: I-5 South is looking like a real mess past exit 308. So if you’re traveling down South give yourself plenty of time. Especially going on down into Oregon, it’s a real parking lot at the border. A two car accident is shutting down two lanes. It’s a zoo out there.

“Shit. Make that 2 hours 'til you start your new life”

“I’m in no rush”. I look out towards the bed of the truck again. I stare at the tarp as it billows around the edges of my dresser. I look up at the sky as the night takes over. I image Mom in sunny Arizona and the windy air over Chicago and I wonder whatever happened to that bed of yours. I think about asking you right then and there but we have a long drive ahead of us and only so many words to pass the time with. Another 2 hours til I start my new life.