New Parents
The wind is rocking the car as I travel northbound. On either side of the highway, open land provides free range for wild gusts as they snake along the ground, building in intensity before slamming into the side of the car—helluva way to end a journey. Miles and miles of land and freedom, only to BAM…right into a 4-door sedan.
The stereo plays one song and one song only: Jingle Bells as performed by the Jingle Cats. Oh, a new passenger will bust a gut howling in laughter at the sheer absurdity of it, the first time it comes on. But then it happens again. And again. And again.
On a December afternoon, a little over a year ago, I’d put in a Christmas mix-CD a friend had put together for me. Track 1: the Jingle Cats belting out their little feline hearts to the tune of Jingle Bells. And that’s the last new track the player ever played. It got stuck on that track, would not eject the CD, and—what’s worse—somehow cursed the technology with which their melodies were brought to life and made it so that it would play, at random times, just to scare the Hell out of anyone in the car—including me.
I can turn off the stereo. I can lower the volume. I can press the “AM/FM” button as many times as I want. Doesn’t matter one Goddamn bit. Miles of quiet solitude with only the hum of the road, when suddenly and without any warning:
MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW.
But again, you get someone new into the vehicle, and it is a joyful thing should the Devil’s Feline Rejects come a-howling.
“So, did you catch the game on Sunday?”
“Ah, man! That Grand Slam in the bottom of the 5th? Right out of the park, just…”
“MEEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOW!”
“What…the actual…??!! Hahahahahahaha! Oh my God, man! Hahahaha!”
But should the ride be of any length?
“So, my older sister? She’s getting really, really uncomfortable—41 weeks along, sitting pressed against her lower back. She just wants this kiddo out. She called me last night in tears and told me…”
“MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEOW!”
“Are you serious with that?”
After a while, friends stopped coming around. They didn’t enjoy the rides or the lifts. They don’t delight in the interruptions to conversations and surprise jolts to the system the way I do. They don’t understand the gaiety that fills the air, even at top volume, when the sudden screeching sounds. And I find myself wondering, pondering: were things better before? Wasn’t it more enjoyable when the passengers and I could just converse without the threat of interruption? Wasn’t this my stereo? My car?
My life?