The Ride, Part I

Outside my building I step off the curb, wait for the approaching car to stop, open the passenger door, and slide in comfortably, shutting the door after me. There is a young woman behind the wheel, a woman I’ve never seen before. As she pulls out she gazes thoughtfully over the road. Her hair stops me. I mean it could literally stop me, it’s so big. Much bigger than is now in fashion, and the fact that she doesn’t seem to realize this makes it that much more conspicuous. And I know that I’m not big enough a person just to let it go. “Your hair!” I exclaim, an edge of panic creeping into my voice.

“What?” Her thoughts have been elsewhere.

I make gestures in the general direction of her head. “I said, your hair,” I say.

Instantly she’s with me. “Oh! Yes, my hair,” she says. “I had it done.” An ominous bit of vagueness to be sure. The Mafia never used the phrase to such haunting effect. “What do you think?”

I consider for a second. “Mainly synonyms for ‘big,’” I admit. “They certainly… did it up, huh?”

“Yeah, it’s nice, don’t you think? I needed a change.” I think, you may also want to consider staying away from low-flying jets. I guess I should ease off a little bit. After all I don’t know this woman.

That I’m in her car at all is a matter of gestalt, which suits me fine. If anything maybe this will help to get me out of my creative rut. In the meantime she seems fine with the arrangement. “What are you called?” I ask.

“Hm? Oh. I’m June. You can call me June.”

“I’m Jeff,” I offer.

June looks over briefly and repeats, “Jeff.” She makes a wide turn around the new statue of Donald Rumsfeld’s colon. “You don’t mind if I pick some people up, do you?”

Just a little bit later we’re heading over the bridge, and I’m listening to the conversation in the back seat. Not to the actual words so much, just the general sound of it. June’s picked up two other people; friendly folks. One of them is a toy designer, and is now discussing a tourniquet kit she’s designed for preschoolers.

Words can spur the imagination. Particular words, certain phrases, different conversational patterns or just the existence of words at all. I’ll take it all, given the chance. But sometimes thoughts are like organs that the body rejects. They don’t take, whether or not I desire them. I’m my own victim and the casualty, in this case, is creativity. Not that it matters.

Meanwhile, they’re still talking. June asks, “Weren’t those the shorts that were flammable?”

The young man in the back seat lets out a surprised, “Whaaaaat?” He is a college student, I think.

“Yeah, there was a big hoopla,” June explains, “because someone wearing those shorts got caught in a fire.”

The toymaker puts in, “It was something about the material, I think, that made them extremely flammable.”

“Wow,” says college student, appreciating the horror of it. I smile not because I find humor in some mythical tragedy, but because I’m enjoying the concept of conversation. Ideas are being exchanged by modified sounds traveling through the air. I imagine people exchanging beads with one another. Drawing into temporary groups, transferring beads from one bag to the next and moving on.

“Yeah, I hear they’re coming back in style actually,” the toymaker says thoughtfully.

June looks up into the rear view mirror, “Really?”

Then I say, “Yeah, like a phoenix.” And then I laugh the wrong way, and spend the next few minutes trying to clear my nose out. Humans are delicate creatures.

Related Tales

» “Hair” (21 of Dec, 2004)
» “Reality” (22 of Jan, 2004)
» “Figuring It Out” (11 of Jan, 2004)