Road Movie

Yesterday was a road movie. I had to pick up the Golden Girl in a parking lot, in a far suburb, near the long ribbon of road that would take us to our destination. I was driving a Hyundai Sonata (I always think Beethoven), sun-roof open, rock and roll (The Who, Lucinda Williams) blasting on the CD player. It was one of those rare days where the sky was blue, the sun was bright and shiny, with temps in the 70s. We had a mission: on the far south side of the city, about an hour of driving ahead of us, we were to do a training session for our company, pass our knowledge onto the next group. The Golden Girl was dressed for summer, all in white, blond hair, smiling, beautiful.

We glided over the pavement at high speed, everything going by in a blur. It was one of those days where everything kind of washes over you, you don't grab onto anything, you just let it come and go. We chatted, laughed, words floated between us and then vanished. The training went well, ("move your mouse here, click here, etc.") everyone was happy and then, we were back on the road. We were basically retracing our long, flat, path, but it felt like a new road, a new adventure. Finally, back at the original place, (the suburbs are a parking lot) Golden Girl exited to find her own car, and I was on my way alone. I cranked the CD player a little louder (what's that Drive By Trucker saying? "Turn the knob to 10 then break it off.") I pointed 'Beethoven' towards the east and drove into a shining future.