Joely Sue Burkhart

I’m in my car on the interstate, crawling through Kansas City traffic. Rush hour sucks here. Cars everywhere, road construction, stalled cars, accidents. Everybody’s mad and edgy because the Chiefs suck this year. Tempers are high. Inch by inch I creep out of the city. I’m driving, but it’s work. I’m not sure if I’m in the right lane. Another bastard just cut me off and now I have to change lanes again. I’d flip him off but I’m a lady. I just curse under my breath and give him THE LOOK.

Damn, I knew I was in the wrong lane! Now I have to double back, miles and miles it seems. I’m still driving but this is totally NOT the direction I’m supposed to be going! But you know how these exchanges work. Sometimes you have to drive in a circle to get back on the road you need.

Finally, I can see it. Clear open road ahead just as the sun slips below the horizon. There’s nothing like driving through Kansas at nighttime (trust me, it’s boring as hell any other time). Flat stretches of interstate as far as you can see. There’s no scenery to miss unless you count feed lots. Just drive, drive, drive. I roll down my window (until I smell those feed lots) and slip in my favorite cd. Music blares out of the speakers and I kick up my speed. Flying, I’m flying down the interstate, the road’s mine, and there’s not a soul in the world but me.

This is what I’m meant to do. I don’t need a map, I don’t need to worry about where I’m going or someone cutting me off or shouting obsenities at me. The road’s mine. I own it. I drive like a maniac and only stop long enough to guzzle another cup of coffee and feed the car. Then I’m off again. Flying in the dark, alone, and it’s wondrous.

This is what I’m meant to do.

All driving is not like this, but I’m still a driver I guess. The other’s work. Sometimes I get lost in the big city and I have to pull out the map. Sometimes I just have to pull over at the park and walk with bare feet through the grass and watch the kids scream and play. Sometimes other drivers go speeding by at the speed of light and I wish I was with them. But I have to go at my speed. I’ll get there when I get there. It’s just more work.

I wish I could drive on the interstate all the time. But eventually I’d run out of gas. There’s always another city to hit. Another rush hour to wade through. I can take it. The memory of the interstate pulls me along.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 23rd, 2004 at 9:14 am and is filed under Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.