1972

August, 1972

J is flying down a straight stretch of highway with the wind whistling through the split windshield of his 1947 Cadillac Series 62. His strong arm is dangling out the driver’s side window, his massive fingers, scarred and tanned, clutch the slow burning embers of a Marlboro cigarette. The black cadillac soaks up the road, undulating too and fro, up and down, with its gas shocks controlling its two tonne body over the cracked asphalt. It is noon on a high plane, and J and his partner roar past truck stop cafes in the August sunshine. Ravens heckle the cars which stream past neglected telephone poles which have sunken lazily into the soft shoulder. J’s beard is full, reaching down to the  collar of his tattered plaid shirt, and his sleeves are rolled up high. 

Flicking his cigarette butt into the ashtray, he switches hands on the wheel, his left hand traces familiar patterns between his thumb and forefinger. The scarred leatherette of the steering wheel is peeling where his fingers rub; the center of the wheel is crowned with an ornate chrome molding. He relieves his right hand of responsibility so it can settle into the lap of his companion, whose bare legs are tucked up into his side on the spacious bench seat. The seat, black fading to brown, is cracking along it’s quilted edges, and is partially covered with a Navajo blanket bought along the highway. John takes his hands off the wheel to pull the sticky rubber gasketed quarter window open to reduce the incessant buffeting through his long loosely bunched hair. His lips never stop moving. He aimlessly turns the chrome knobs on the radio, scanning for Little Richard, The Band, Dylan, The Supremes or The Doors, taking a moment to sing along with each song before changing to the next station. His leather boots protrude from a pair of worn out jeans, the hem of which is rolled twice. His right foot buries itself in the carpet, pushing the cadillac’s tired v8 hard, as it flies towards the sun. J’s lover grins, smiling amorously across at his relaxed eyes. In his drawl – his consummate enthusiasm -- he is yammering on. He fantasizes about his next meal and the antique car he is coveting. “Holy dukes,” he says. He laughs with his head tilted back… 

Our mother is somewhere nearby doing a little tap dance to celebrate his arrival. He is back in his wheelchair. She kisses him gently on the forehead, warming all around her with her smile.