SINGALONG SILO SONG

She hangs out in the passing lane a lot; I wouldn’t have guessed it about her. That sort of thing tends to piss people off. We’ll have to discuss when we’re in the same vehicle.

“Wow, 495 through Worcester sucks on a good day!”

This isn’t a good day. Herding cats would be easier than navigating this traffic; surprisingly, her Nissan and my Tacoma are wrangling the Jaguars, Peugoet Lions and Ford Cougars quite well.

“Shit, there she goes again! Gotta ask about this passing lane thing; it’s like an addiction with her.”

Our trip was planned in advance, then Covid hit me, and it was temporarily abandoned, only to become a last minute “yes” on my part. Suze, my longtime best friend, calls it “extreme visiting.” Two wondrous people — both of whom I have never met in person — are our targets for quick overnights and lots of hugs. Likely some laughs, offer assistance to one who had a recent fall. Westport, Connecticut and Huntly, Virginia in Rappahannock County our destinations. I didn’t need to specify “Rappahannock County” but, ever since I first heard this name mentioned in my weekly Writing Class, slash, Best Party Ever, I fell in love with it and I recommend saying it whenever chance presents itself.

“RAPPAHANNOCK.”

Nice. Try it. You’re gonna love it.

My best friend and I have some history of being in cars together for long and short trips over many years. Most are memorable in one way or another  — largely good, hilarious even — and others tested our friendship in ways that proved our melting point higher than tungsten. A friendship, an alloy, forged in a crucible of fierce female fire.

Speaking of forges, our friend, Nol, in Rappahannock — go ahead, say it! — is a gifted blacksmith and artist and it is his home where we’ll finally land. First, on to Westport and Roland’s — writing mentor, playwright, artist, and new friend — who I’ll meet at last and where we’ll crash the first night.

“What the motherfucking fuck??!!!”

A white circa eighties Pontiac Firebird whips in front of Suze’s Nissan out of the blue doing  about 90, weaves between two cars ahead of her, and disappears into a maze of fast-moving metal on I 84.

Hopefully, we won’t crash before the night.

After a joyous night of talking, improvisation, laughing our heads off and a restful sleep —well, for some — we ditch my truck at Roland’s, as planned, and, together, begin the long last leg of our journey. Suze is behind the wheel. This, in itself, is a small miracle. One, because I am an abysmal passenger — I drive, you ride — and, two, because I fight my digestive system to travel. Well, I fight my digestive system, period, but, traveling throws the proverbial wrench in the works. Add an anvil, while you’re at it. My insides respond to my natural state of anxiety strive as I may to make them calm the fuck down. It never works; misery ensues. I am proud, however.; I forge on. There it is again — “forge” — it  keeps popping up. I’ve got fire, hearth and home on my mind. Not necessarily in that order.

I’m a homebody and I know it. It’s been true since I was an infant, according to Mom. Musta come here with a few issues. Or, I took one look at this place, Earth, and wasn’t fooled.  Anyway, despite being well-traveled — I’ve seen eight countries, some by sea, some by car, plane, the Eastern seaboard, deep south, beautiful California — I don’t come by voyaging easily. I am anxious to get going on the trip and more anxious to get back home. My body responds accordingly. Traveling for me requires some steel, some girding of my loins. Good for me for resolving to do it anyway.

“Silo, when I was young, I used to call your name…”

You just never know when Neil Diamond will crop up and be right handy.

In the passenger seat, knees drawn up under my chin, paisley patch cotton harem pants soft against the summer-tanned skin of my lanky arms wrapped firmly around them, I rock back and forth to the sound of my own voice. Softly crooning my torqued version of this seventies classic. My best friend crumples forward onto the steering wheel with a huge guffaw. There’s an awful lot of farms with silos littering this state. We’ve crossed state lines again into Pennsylvania, soon to be our least favorite in the union for a multiplicity of reasons. You can start with the gas prices. Don’t get me started on the 2016 presidential election.

She’s pretty, Suze. I glance over at her with her sparkling strawberry hair, muted a bit in the dim light of a rain-soaked afternoon on yet another East Coast highway. I 95, Interstate 84 and the Merritt Parkway are happily in our rearview. She’s good at this “nomad” stuff; she’s been living the life for a long time. I suck at it. Well, as I said, I have issues. I’d like to be her. She positively glows — in all ways.

“KO -MA - TSU!!!”

My voice drags every bit of rasp out of its deepest gutter to cough out this word I love, blazoned across any number of big rigs digging earth or lifting crane buckets alongside any highway in America. Adding an assuredly culturally inappropriate attempt to sound like Belushi’s Samurai Futaba adds to the fun.

“Come on, try it, Buddy! Say it! Once you do, there’s no turning back! You’ll be Jimmy Durante-ing it at the top of your lungs on every byway of God’s green earth wherever and whenever you see this company’s equipment for the rest of your life! KO-MA-TSU!”

Endlessly satisfying.

I watch her in my peripheral; she doesn’t know it. I notice stuff even if I’m not looking at you.  I mean, she does most likely know this; there’s not a lot that escapes each other’s deep scrutiny, but, I like to think she’s not always aware of my awareness.

She has so many friends; people are drawn to her. It’s not just the glittering orange diamond hair or the radiating kindness. She has a way of drawing out wonderful things from people and a generosity of spirit and magnanimity that’s magnetic. Everywhere she lands someone has a space — typically a beautiful space — where she can lay her head. She has friends on Mars. I admire her. We’re best friends but we’re very different.  I, too, am kind, generous to a fault, fairly funny. But, she’s way more diplomatic, far more beloved.

“Do you like Credence?”

‘Of course, who doesn’t like Credence?”

“So, yes or no, to Looking Out My Back Door?”

She’s got her hand on a switcher thing on the steering column that shuffles songs.

“I don’t care. I could take it or leave it. It’s overplayed. These radio stations and Spotify don’t seem to remember that classic bands had more than just the one or two hit songs they play over and over. That’s all I’m saying.”

Beep.

She clicks it off.

Well, more direct, I guess. I’m more direct. Could be why she has more friends. ‘Course, it could also be that I am much more of a loner than she. She isn’t a loner at all. I, on the other hand, need my space. But, I want people and friendship.

Jesus I’m a clusterfuck of contradictions. Like most of the world.

“How about the Allman Brothers?”

“Sure.”

Midnight Rider cranks in the background.

“Is Greg Allman dead?” I can’t remember. Sometimes, seems like everyone who’s anyone is dead.

She tosses a glance at me from her perch at the wheel.

“No, he’s not dead.”

I look at her. She seems quite certain of his pumping heart with her beautifully set jaw and shimmering green eyes.

“No, I think he died.”

I’m not sure why I’m testing her.

“Wasn’t he married to Cher?”

She’s so nonchalant, so assured. Why is she asking me this? What’s Cher got to do with it? For that matter, what’s love got to do with it?

“Yeah. He was. Married to her. With her, anyways.”

I’ve got Tina in my head now.

“…who needs a heart when a heart can be broken?…”

“Then you’re right; I think he’s dead.”

Guess that’s settled.

“… And I’ve gone by the point of caring,

Some old bed I’ll soon be sharing…”

Gregg and his brothers rock on and we rock out while the Pennsylvania hills and the Poconos roll away and we’re silent.

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