After I left work a little while ago, I stopped by the store for a six-pack before going home to begin a week off. It was an unremarkable trip, marked by the kind of errand everyone runs almost every week. And yet ….
It brought back so many memories of similar late-night drives on hot summer nights, drives that would end at all-night get-togethers with friends in stuffy old houses with box fans churning in the corner, or even at the odd
booty call assignation. The windows down, the radio on, no one else on the road, the air so thick and close with humidity that you practically had to turn on the wipers, six-pack in the bag on the floor in front of the shotgun seat and sliding a bit on the floor mat as the car corners ….
The difference? Well, for one thing, I came home, not to a party or anything else. I kissed my sleeping children, talked for a bit with my wife before she turned out her light, and then came in here to the PC to blog and wind down. For another, I’m drinking Sierra Nevada at the moment, not Wiedemann. (Relatedly, the six-pack cost $8, not $2.) Not all that different, and yet so very: just one more bit of my misspent youth receding in the night like a pair of taillights in the rear-view mirror.