But that is how lives go, I suppose, in full circle, in spires that whirl around each other, like those propeller leaves that helicopter to the earth spinning on silent notes. I suppose I see my life in refrains and chords, improvised at times, jumping off the scale, cleft curling into a question mark. Where is the little girl who sings with her father? Belting into the air uninhibited by untamed notes, out of tune. A girl, I think, a woman becomes untamed that way through inhibitions and best friends, singing with her father and then her best friend, driving on the highway to nowhere, where the windows are open and she sounds and smells beautiful like humid air after it rains and damp flower petals, where confidence looks, tastes, and smells the same, like setting sun and rain and leftover perfume, where her best friend and father have the same effect on her, where music spins back on itself and has made her emerge from a cocoon of girlhood to womanhood or somewhere in between…she thinks…and sings.
The road streams by in streaks of color, as if my fingertips out the window, sailing on the high def air are painting the greens and aquas on a canvas of atmosphere. The weather is on the brink of perfect, sun peeking behind clouds, then emerging to cover my bare feet resting on the dashboard. Becca snaps her fingers with a lose shoulder roll to the beat of the music that surrounds us in an aura of rhythm. Nothing matters, the campus is far behind the exhaust we’ve left in our wake and the open road greets our voices and gyrations on leather interior.
“What is this?! I love it!
“Girltalk. They are coming next month, the big concert.”
“Holy shit. They are amazing. And this” she points to the radio “this is our song for sure.”
Girltalk’s song Bounce That blares through the speakers with its familiar melodies that blear together, songs of other artists mixed into a sound garden of rap, R&B and pop. Every beat is different and a bit off but perfect for our style, our newfound “filthy gorgeous, I don’t give a shit” confidence that we could always taste on the tips of our tounges but never indulge in until now.
Becca makes me think of my father, the way she sits with her collarbone raised, chin slightly up, mouthing words to the songs we know, itching to remove herself from the confines of the car cab when the music becomes particularly body moving, an air of confidence that is intoxicating. But that is what music does. That is what a best friend does. That is what the open road, open windows, the smell of exhaust and a hint of sweat all do. And when it all becomes aligned like planets in the sky, you feel as if the music you dance to, you sing to, you live to, has all been written with you in mind.
*
You go back, Jack, do it again
Wheel turnin' 'round and 'round
You go back, Jack, do it again…
My father’s 1997 black Porsche Carrera cut through the atmosphere like wire through clay. The salty aroma of new leather was ever present each time I slid into the curved passenger seat, as if the car had been bought newly furbished the day before. The sound of the leather creaking and cinching as my father adjusted his body behind the wheel, hugging the arc of his slightly reclined body. He babied the metal creature as if it were his second child. The black finish had an iridescent tone that shone like a peacock feather in the sun, where the body curved like the tattoo of silhouette of woman’s body on a man’s muscular bicep, streamlined with every maneuver. Glossed like fresh sweat I always hesitated in reaching for the door handle, afraid the color would rub off on my skin. But one inside and accelerating through the atmosphere, my father and I squinted through the wind that left our faced stinging and pink.
“Dad, play the song!” My voice straining over the accelerating engine. My father was not a man who was unbridled. The muscles in his face always clenches around his jaw, temples and neck, straining, bracing for the next source of anxiety or stressor. But when he sang, something melted away from him, his muscles softening like wax of a lit candle. I never remember singing with him. I knew the words, saw them if I closed my eyes, glowing like neon lights. But I just wanted to watch my father and hear his voice, melodic instead of stern. The music seemed to un-thaw a section of him that had rusted over from neglect. Signing rubbed the tarnish away. And now when I hear him sing the tension in my chest that sometimes comes without warning in his presence, releases like stretching fabric.
“Times are hard
You’re afraid to pay the fee
So you find yourself somebody
Who can do the job for free
When you need a bit of lovin'
Cause your man is out of town
That’s the time you get me runnin'
And you know Ill be around.”
Steely Dan was my father’s favorite band. Plastic CD cases of their various albums were always stacked in the glove compartment when I released the latched looking for a piece of gum or sunglasses to borrow. There was a kind of life, vivacious energy in the songs Dirty Work and Do It Again that my father embodied when we listened to the music. He became the lyrics curving his mouth over each tone and syllable, became the tempo, the zing of electric guitar, clang of piano, drone and squeal of the trumpet and sax when he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel, sometimes dropping one and to his knee to switch up the beat. I tasted that music on my tongue, bitter, sweet, salty, sour, the notes hit each taste bud, and part of my father fed into me with it.
Don’t Take Me Alive and Deacon Blues fill the space of my RAV 4 when it’s warm enough to drive with my sunroof open. I can smell my father’s cologne even when the melodies float audibly, transforming into a trace of him. The thickness of the harmonies like dark chocolate in my mouth. Other lines are smooth with a bite, like a glass of white wine. Some are dark and earthy, rich, more like a rouge, nearly plumb red. I drink it in until I’m tipsy from the music and I forget the day I might have had. The songs have never changed. I have.
“I have one for you, Dad.” Deacon Blues scrolls across my iPod screen. My father waits for the first chords. When they come he slaps the steering wheel with the heel of his hand and smiles.
Ill learn to work the saxophone
Ill play just what I feel
Drink Scotch whisky all night long
And die behind the wheel
They got a name for the winners in the world
I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the crimson tide
Call me deacon blues
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