What is Proper at Twenty Five?
What is proper at twenty-five? The train is moving and the cars near me do too. Many things pass us by, some registering in our brains; traffic signals, other motorists, a pedestrian or two, the sign of a store you keep meaning to buy from but leave it for another day, for manana. Other things, we remember and internalize: the car that cuts us off, the light that turned a spiteful red just as you approached, the speed and the odometer, the vehicle`s funny noises.
My radio sings, it communicates with me. I take a left turn with all precautions, opposing traffic still far away, or maybe I take a slight chance, impatient and unwilling to wait. I hear a good singer. Tonelessly but loudly I sing along until I forget the lyrics. I change the station mercilessly as soon as they play an artist I dislike, or the annoying commercial break comes on. I search and press the tune button, only half my attention on the road. Stop signs near, a pedestrian walk, the crossroads of courtesy where lack of morals cause wreckage. I break instinctively, my finger frustratingly searching for the music I like. I act politely, I wait for my turn before pressing on the gas again.
The music is horrifying but I leave it because suddenly and rather shamefully I remember my responsibility. Hands on the wheel, both for a change, constantly checking my rear-view mirror. A motorist shows his displeasure at my speed, at my choice, at my driving skills. He wants out fast. He wants to pass me and be first, so he roars his terrifying roar and dangles his penis close to my bumper. Fear comes in and sits right next to my frustration with the radio. What is proper at twenty-five? I ask. My foot responds to the fear, it presses down even before my frontal lobe finishes its analysis: he wants me to go faster or he won’t get off my ass. The speedometer rises five, ten, fifteen above the speed limit by the time my brain observer shouts an order, stop it! My foot leaves the gas pedal, muscles twitching at the conflict; fear says press, logic says not a chance. I negotiate until logic convinces ego, puts some perspective into it, changes the fear: if you let him bully you, you are a push over. The foot muscles tense in their position, they tense against going above the speed limit. I puff my chest; I stand my ground at 50 an hour.
I turn again, this time seeking a major artery, one that’s fast and will take me places. My phone rings as I make another left and I pick it up despite it sucking away my attention, risking collision. A friend has called me from his home, back, back, back some miles from where I am. He wants me to see him and party with him. The artery has sucked me in, my car fast, my foot loose on the pedal. I could turn where the artery shrinks away into places of play, work and life, and go to where my friend beacons. My blinkers flash, my wheels take me to the right lane where I can easily access the upcoming exit. What are we going to do? I ask. The same as always, he responds. The exit approaching, I debate it. Should I? I want to. Is it proper at twenty-five? I miss the exit. Over the phone I say sorry I can’t to my friend. He says no worries, but he is clearly annoyed. I hope I can go back another day and do the same as always, but only after this, after getting to where I go.
Night begins to fall. Day’s grey blue departure mixes with the suns of my car’s eyes. Ahead of me I see the city having a stroke, all red and white, pressure and loud. The artery was a bad choice. I lower the speed and resign myself to the traffic jam. The radio station has changed again, something informational comes on. The frustration built up earlier goes. I become serene and oblivious to the congestion around me, the physical entrapment. I’m taken elsewhere, a place beyond the here and now that helps me through the present.
I approach the clot. I know it because the colours change. No longer is it a confusion of grey-blue silhouettes against the reds of brake lights or the white of headlights. Flashing before all of us in deceptively joyful blue, white and red, first responders pick up the pieces of tragedy. Being furthest to the right I am treated to the spectacle. A van with a family missed the exit. Fire trucks block the view and in the distance an ambulance flies, parting traffic like Moses parted the sea. Another one begins to leave the scene, lights quiet and the cabin dark. I swear never to have a family, never to risk losing it, never to risk losing my self. I think this with my car picking up speed. Is that proper for twenty-five?
I decide the artery is not for me. Careful not to miss the exit, I move into a residential area. All the houses look similar: similar lawns, similar fronts, similar cars, similar windows, similar sizes. They pass by me unnoticed, holding little or no interest. A yellow sign brightens with my approach. It warns me to slowdown to 30 kilometres an hour to protect children playing in the playground. But night has covered the area. I maintain my speed, in fact, I go a little faster. It is all permissible in the darkness once innocence has sought shelter and us creatures of the night come out to find each other, our eyes reflecting what light’s left, the contours of our forms sensitive to the roaming hand, the boundaries of light invisible in this welcoming pit, the embracing jowls of Sheol.
I leave the dark, racy playground unrepentant. The city does too, brightening the sky in an artificial explosion of colourful fear of dying. I begin to enjoy it for its complex nature. Crazy motorists speed by quiet darkening hospices. Loud music for the sleep deprived and escapist pumps through my windows. The sense of fear and joy and expectancy in office buildings alight and empty remind me this part of the city will not sleep, it cannot die. I see the homeless hunkering in corners, cigarette smoke signalling their continued existence the way lights announce presence in a seemingly empty house. I see the youngsters, restless and inquisitive, probing and poking the night, inciting her to give more, to tell more, to show more. I am delighted with the risqué, with the promise and the fear, the escapism, the ultimate fiction.
The center grows distant in my rear view mirror. True night, like the one I encountered at the playground, tinges my windows. I am now a ghost in the city, a traveller on the road. I look back and see it disappear the way details of a dead loved one erase over time. The sky is cut and it bleeds. The earth emits its last moan from the contractions of our collective fear of night and terror of the next day. No one holds our hand, but we give birth to a new day anyway. The blood spreads explosively. We open our eyes and see it dye our life. But soon light changes. The colours change and it is time to brew a cup of java. My foot speeds in the open road. It is free to do so. Other cars are there with me. A van comes close to me. I notice it is the same make of the one that crashed and clogged artery, but of different colour. Another family. I look in my rear view mirror at the empty seats and then at the absent passenger. The family passes me. I continue, hoping to see another city, go through another town where we savagely dance with each other hoping to finish the number, hopefully with a partner. But I don’t bother to see if there is another town. The map stays in my glove box. I speed up. Is that proper at twenty five?
My radio sings, it communicates with me. I take a left turn with all precautions, opposing traffic still far away, or maybe I take a slight chance, impatient and unwilling to wait. I hear a good singer. Tonelessly but loudly I sing along until I forget the lyrics. I change the station mercilessly as soon as they play an artist I dislike, or the annoying commercial break comes on. I search and press the tune button, only half my attention on the road. Stop signs near, a pedestrian walk, the crossroads of courtesy where lack of morals cause wreckage. I break instinctively, my finger frustratingly searching for the music I like. I act politely, I wait for my turn before pressing on the gas again.
The music is horrifying but I leave it because suddenly and rather shamefully I remember my responsibility. Hands on the wheel, both for a change, constantly checking my rear-view mirror. A motorist shows his displeasure at my speed, at my choice, at my driving skills. He wants out fast. He wants to pass me and be first, so he roars his terrifying roar and dangles his penis close to my bumper. Fear comes in and sits right next to my frustration with the radio. What is proper at twenty-five? I ask. My foot responds to the fear, it presses down even before my frontal lobe finishes its analysis: he wants me to go faster or he won’t get off my ass. The speedometer rises five, ten, fifteen above the speed limit by the time my brain observer shouts an order, stop it! My foot leaves the gas pedal, muscles twitching at the conflict; fear says press, logic says not a chance. I negotiate until logic convinces ego, puts some perspective into it, changes the fear: if you let him bully you, you are a push over. The foot muscles tense in their position, they tense against going above the speed limit. I puff my chest; I stand my ground at 50 an hour.
I turn again, this time seeking a major artery, one that’s fast and will take me places. My phone rings as I make another left and I pick it up despite it sucking away my attention, risking collision. A friend has called me from his home, back, back, back some miles from where I am. He wants me to see him and party with him. The artery has sucked me in, my car fast, my foot loose on the pedal. I could turn where the artery shrinks away into places of play, work and life, and go to where my friend beacons. My blinkers flash, my wheels take me to the right lane where I can easily access the upcoming exit. What are we going to do? I ask. The same as always, he responds. The exit approaching, I debate it. Should I? I want to. Is it proper at twenty-five? I miss the exit. Over the phone I say sorry I can’t to my friend. He says no worries, but he is clearly annoyed. I hope I can go back another day and do the same as always, but only after this, after getting to where I go.
Night begins to fall. Day’s grey blue departure mixes with the suns of my car’s eyes. Ahead of me I see the city having a stroke, all red and white, pressure and loud. The artery was a bad choice. I lower the speed and resign myself to the traffic jam. The radio station has changed again, something informational comes on. The frustration built up earlier goes. I become serene and oblivious to the congestion around me, the physical entrapment. I’m taken elsewhere, a place beyond the here and now that helps me through the present.
I approach the clot. I know it because the colours change. No longer is it a confusion of grey-blue silhouettes against the reds of brake lights or the white of headlights. Flashing before all of us in deceptively joyful blue, white and red, first responders pick up the pieces of tragedy. Being furthest to the right I am treated to the spectacle. A van with a family missed the exit. Fire trucks block the view and in the distance an ambulance flies, parting traffic like Moses parted the sea. Another one begins to leave the scene, lights quiet and the cabin dark. I swear never to have a family, never to risk losing it, never to risk losing my self. I think this with my car picking up speed. Is that proper for twenty-five?
I decide the artery is not for me. Careful not to miss the exit, I move into a residential area. All the houses look similar: similar lawns, similar fronts, similar cars, similar windows, similar sizes. They pass by me unnoticed, holding little or no interest. A yellow sign brightens with my approach. It warns me to slowdown to 30 kilometres an hour to protect children playing in the playground. But night has covered the area. I maintain my speed, in fact, I go a little faster. It is all permissible in the darkness once innocence has sought shelter and us creatures of the night come out to find each other, our eyes reflecting what light’s left, the contours of our forms sensitive to the roaming hand, the boundaries of light invisible in this welcoming pit, the embracing jowls of Sheol.
I leave the dark, racy playground unrepentant. The city does too, brightening the sky in an artificial explosion of colourful fear of dying. I begin to enjoy it for its complex nature. Crazy motorists speed by quiet darkening hospices. Loud music for the sleep deprived and escapist pumps through my windows. The sense of fear and joy and expectancy in office buildings alight and empty remind me this part of the city will not sleep, it cannot die. I see the homeless hunkering in corners, cigarette smoke signalling their continued existence the way lights announce presence in a seemingly empty house. I see the youngsters, restless and inquisitive, probing and poking the night, inciting her to give more, to tell more, to show more. I am delighted with the risqué, with the promise and the fear, the escapism, the ultimate fiction.
The center grows distant in my rear view mirror. True night, like the one I encountered at the playground, tinges my windows. I am now a ghost in the city, a traveller on the road. I look back and see it disappear the way details of a dead loved one erase over time. The sky is cut and it bleeds. The earth emits its last moan from the contractions of our collective fear of night and terror of the next day. No one holds our hand, but we give birth to a new day anyway. The blood spreads explosively. We open our eyes and see it dye our life. But soon light changes. The colours change and it is time to brew a cup of java. My foot speeds in the open road. It is free to do so. Other cars are there with me. A van comes close to me. I notice it is the same make of the one that crashed and clogged artery, but of different colour. Another family. I look in my rear view mirror at the empty seats and then at the absent passenger. The family passes me. I continue, hoping to see another city, go through another town where we savagely dance with each other hoping to finish the number, hopefully with a partner. But I don’t bother to see if there is another town. The map stays in my glove box. I speed up. Is that proper at twenty five?