He drove to work in the evening. He worked third
shift; it was shit. He lived for the time outside his
work. Spending time in a big red building overnight
surrounded by TVs, beds, cereal boxes, graphic tees,
ice cream, adult diapers, board games, celebrity designed
dresses, self checkout lanes, and fellow people of the
red shirt and khakis can really fuck you up. The people
were nice, except for that douche who never does any
work, but he was sure no one would choose to stock these
objects while most people on this side of the planet sleep.

The time he spent in the car was a form of meditation.
He had to purposefully prepare himself for that night’s
set of unexpected crap, fussing with handheld computers
that know little about the store but run your life, and trying
to survive until the sun came out and his real life would
begin anew. Other drivers were not often helpful in these
moments of gas pedal, brake pedal, gas pedal, brake.
People ran red lights, because they were too nice to
honk at those who believe green lights give no feeling
of necessity to accelerate forward. He once was rear
ended by a woman who thought he would continue
through an intersection rather than stop. Her car took
the brunt. It occurs to him that driving on public roads
is a large game of trust with fellow human beings. You
must believe that everyone will stay in their own lanes,
go on the green, and stop on the red. That turn signals
will be honored, and the death we all readily encourage
on a daily basis will be put off another day. All because
there is a sentient animal at the wheel of every carbon
burning contraption in your midst.

To maintain his calm, he would turn on the radio. Today
was no exception. His usual choice was the local public
station with the announcers who were always too calm
while reading about death, destruction, and the moral
turpitude of political leaders around the world. They soothe
the body while beating the mind with awfulness. Recently,
the President announced that drones accidentally killed
hostages in a strike earlier this year. He was so outraged
that he almost broke the driver compact of civility. He
had to stop quickly, because he was thinking about the
world soon having drones of their own. What is to stop
world leaders we don’t trust bombing our country because
someone might be a terrorist. Collateral damage could be
my wife or my son. Is there a terrorist in my neighborhood?

Anyway, when he turns on the radio today, they are reviewing
a movie he will never see, or a band he wouldn’t like, or
discussing which political party will guarantee large corporations
their monetary stranglehold on the world. So he changes the
channel to his second choice: an oldies station. When he
was a kid, oldies meant music from his parents’ childhood
and older. But now oldies includes music from his own early
years. That he can hear his favorite suicidal grunge rocker
on this station never ceases to confuse him. Rather than
smelling like his teen spirit, or thinking about a box
that is heart shaped, he hears a song he knows for sure,
but cannot remember the title or the artist. Is it sixties?
I think so. This is music his parents would know. Or would
they? This song isn’t that famous. It’s one that doesn’t use
the title in the lyrics. He has tried learning the bass part.
His bass chops suck, but he can at least keep time.
His arrival at the large archery sign prompts him to
turn off his radio, and pull into the parking lot. The song
will disappear from his mind for days, and someday
next week he will remember this moment, and think
What was that song again?