I remember Dad behind the wheel,
elbows out, arm resting on the window,
eyebrows furrowed, eyes darting,
hands twitching in rhythm
with invisible opponents.
He often said on the Los Angeles freeway,
shaking his head and rubbing his eyes,
“Boys, I can’t see a damn thing.”
Five lanes of traffic
and two sons scared shitless
at what that meant.
I asked Mom once,
“What is he doing?”
She said, “Arguing with people in his head.”
I laughed then.
I laugh now,
thinking about all there is to argue about.
The greedy, the careless,
the cruel, the brutal people
that want more, only more.
Mostly, though, it was on the way
to Hollywood Park
or Santa Anita.
Dad leaned over the wheel,
muttering, gesturing,
convincing the horses to run faster,
turn on the juice in the homestretch,
telling Shoemaker to use the whip
and Pincay to take the inside lane
on the final turn.
I watched him like a scientist,
like a budding poet,
a child noticing the absurd motions,
the invisible dialogues,
the way his lips moved
like he was negotiating with a stubborn wind,
or providence asleep
at the wheel.
Sometimes, Dad drifted lane to lane,
no turn signal, no checking the rearview mirror,
and I’d feel the invisible friction
he was arguing about in his mind.
A swerve here, a sudden pounding
on the brake there,
and I’d think,
he’s winning, he’s losing,
he’s keeping the chaos at bay
with a twitch of a finger
or an angry glance at the sky.
Later, I thought maybe it was the horses—
maybe he was seeing the race
before it happened,
like a silent jockey,
mapping every stride, every stumble.
Or maybe he was just a man
arguing with life
and the only witnesses were his sons,
trying not to have panic attacks
in the backseat.
Or maybe he watched Inherit the Wind
one too many times.
He always dreamed of being a lawyer.
Debating gave him high blood pressure
and satisfaction.
I can see him now,
that California gray sky,
sitting on the dashboard,
hand out the window,
a conductor of invisible speeches,
making peace with the world,
one argument at a time.
We can all relate to traffic being a rat race. I have always dreaded big city interstates.
One wrong move and you are stuck there for hours. And that’s if you are lucky.
Something about this write makes me wonder if my boys ever studied me in traffic when they were younger.
I enjoyed the read.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Excellent write, you’re such a natural storyteller and are able with your amazing imagery to make me feel like I’m watching from the backseat my friend. A great read brother, nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
That silent observation of internal conversations is such a profound moment. Terrified in the backseat…I often feel that way about life these days. I have a friend whose grandmother used to drive us around in the backseat of her old green paneled station wagon, having full conversations in her head. But her half was audible. We never knew when she was addressing us or them. Took me back to those rides with this.
This took me back a good few years .. or yonks as we say this side of the pond .. thanks for the ride Thomas .. Neville
I couldn’t help but think of an old neighbor I had when I was young. He would drive me and his son and daughter to school up the street. Thank God it wasn’t far. He would talk as though we weren’t there and every once in a while hit the brake when someone pulled up to the corner of a street waiting to pull out. I couldn’t wait to get out. 🙂 Great story, Thomas.