We used to go driving every Saturday
"Once you're in, you've got no
hassles, no time
limits,
no constraints," he used to say.
He would then turn on the engine—no, I'm sorry, it did not roar like a beast, not our old camouflage green Nova; it coughed like a sick old man before it ignited.
"See that building over there? No, the brick one, all boarded up.
Used to go to school there."
"—this place here," he points to a brand new Mobil station, "used to be a restaurant. Good Lord, I used to go in there, eat burgers and shoot the breeze for hours."
I tried to imagine what the place looked like then, who would go there, what would be said… But I couldn't because the picture fell apart almost as fast as it came together, replaced by a spectre and a brand new gas station.
We drove through the old neighborhood, saw the old house, and
waved to old friends—
through windows, of course
"How 'bout some ice cream?" he said.
So we U-turned toward the expressway. We could not get ice cream in the old neighborhood. There weren't any ice cream places.
(Even if there were, you'd probably get robbed)
The former landscape was replaced by a road, intertwined, tangential. I imagined the immediate network extending and growing as we drove.
You could probably drive to Europe, I thought. The crowded buildings became sparse. The dark ground went green. He did not say anything now. He only fiddled with the radio knob. He looked straight ahead, mouth ends tipped down.
I could see movement in a motionless eye.
His thoughts are not for me.
Turning away, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass as the churning of the engine vibrated up to my ears and stirred up the fluids. My tongue felt heavy and my legs ached. The silence, the stillness were maddening and exhaustive.
"There's the drive-thru," he finally said. I didn't want ice cream from a drive-thru window. I wanted to go home.
I felt tired.

…and he did too.

—J. Elias