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I'm driving back home on an eerily quiet night, almost too quiet, to the point where I'm actually wishing I'd see a deer frozen in awe in the neighboring passenger lanes of the highway. I peered at the analog "back to the future"-sque dash clock that couldn't have been wider than a George Washington portrait quarter.
11:01
I snarled in exhaustion, realizing three hours of my voyage were left to be endured. Thoughts of unenthusiastically relenting to embark on a trip to see my sister clouded my mind as I squirmed around, frustrated being trapped in my 1985 Toyota Corolla for neverending solemn highway views. The streamline of fog occasionally dissipated through my windshield as I tickled the gas pedal with my foot, anxiously awaiting every possible pullover spot a Cop could be waiting to assign me a day-ruining Speeding Ticket reacharound. I shook my head furiously, desparately trying to seek some sort of miracle energy inducer to keep my sanity at bay. With this trip being my mother's genius idea, I intentionally, yet stupidly, waited till the last minute to pack any necessities I'd need for the three day excursion of just laying in a vacant house room, anxiously counting down each day and hour left until a depressing, clique dominated reality awaited me at the confining jail cell I called my "teller station" at work. If only Columbia Records knew about this prison location with convenient access off the state highway for Johnny Cash to swing by and play a show at. Would've given me the ideal opportunity to make money being apart of the audience photo on an album cover, outside of being a manager/coworkers' "Whack-A-Mole" test dummy for every minor transactional mistake made at Warren Tempermental's Hellhole Bank.
With having a voidless center console containing only invisible audio cassettes of regretful procrastination seminars, I jammed the spherical Radio ON button and decided to start skimming through local radio stations in hopes an uplifting hit would be played, because who needs caffeine when you have music?
Static.
"President Bush addressed Congress today with a firm message on the Persian Gulf conflict: 'Aggression is defeated, the war is over"
"Oh great, depressive snoozefest news radio"
Static.
"The evening weather forecast for the inland counties is foggy, but with cool and gently breezy temperatures that make sitting on the porch for a before-bedtime read a pleasant opportunity!"
"Yeah okay Boy George."
Static.
The thumping of an upbeat song starts to rattle my blown speakers with this melodic backdrop guitar foreshadowing a likely crescendo. Energy...at last.
"Perfe.....awh wait what the hell?!?"
My ears deceived me...it was Rod Stewart's 1988 Hit "Forever Young"...the cheesiest anthem that's best reserved for middle school kids doing a version of the worm and firecracker at booger-eating middle school dances.
I pounded my fist on the steering wheel and let out a big sigh of aggression, as the noise of my car horn echoed into the forest abyss to my peripheral sight. I buried the side of my face into my hand and roared a tired groan, hoping one last fiddling of the radio dial would land me a song that'd kill the burdening thoughts of a boring, irrelevant life at home with an office nameplate waiting for me.
"Come on FM dial, time to spin the WHEEL....OF....FORTUNE" as I nervously looked away and let my hand spontaneously spin the dial to a random frequency, praying that at least something would penetrate and awaken my eardrums.
Nope, just another run of the mill advertisement for Red Light Specials near me
Wait a minute...
"YES LADIES AND GENTLEMEN YOU HEARD THAT CORRECTLY, RED LIGHT SPECIALS GOING ON NOW. AND DON'T FORGET TO BROWSE OUR SPECIALTY SUPPLY OF MARTHA STEWART PRODUCTS ONLY AT KMART."
"Oh, RIGHT!"
How could I forget being conveniently close to the 24/7 "anything you could ever want" retailer I so painfully longed for the last few years?
I knew just where I had to stop now. Sure, it solidified a Full Metal Jacket Drill Instructor style rant from my mother, due to arriving home much later than expected. But there was no way I was passing up the chance to grab a few necessity items I knew the local Dollar General store wouldn't have back home, even if they tore up the shelves and found products buried from the local Convenience Store before it.
I hightailed my car off the highway and navigated my vessel towards the closest KMart I could recall from memory. Carefully inching into the spacious parking lot, the only sight I could prominently witness was the Blue and Red "KMart" logo illuminated with an outdoor hum, reminiscent of a rundown, Redneck Gas Station Bathroom flourescent light. Scattered were KMart carts swaying in sync with the breeze against the parking lot curb, as I steered my car into a far away parking spot (my signature move to avoid getting scratches from runaway carts) and threw my shift column into PARK.
I flicked my wrist to hear an audible ignition CLICK, as I grenade-launched my keys onto the passenger seat. I then routinely scurried my hands into my pockets for a well deserved indulgement of soothing nicotine, courtesy of a disheveled box of Marlboro Reds and the quiet hum of an ignited Zippo Butane lighter.
As I laid back and heard the croaking "EEEEK" of my seat aching for a can of WD-40, I slowly took a drag and exhaled out gasses of tar, mystery chemical #2, and the repressed memories of an overly optimistic youth while staring blankly into the gleaming starry sky.
"I wonder what her future's gonna be like" I openly announced for the crushed Coca-Cola can wedged between the neighboring Cart Return railing. I had caught a glimpse of a woman today at a New York highway rest stop that puzzle-piece perfect fit the dream woman image I've long tucked away in my "wishful thinking" thought cabinet. A rosy red smile that could turn any man's day of utter disappointing failure into a beam of hope and positive outlook, an aura that screamed a personality that had niche interests she wished other men of her generation could relate to, a presence that gave off a welcoming, friendly demeanor yearning for a man that was capable of the same.
Of course, this sighting never has a storybook ending.
Being close-minded and paranoid of taking the initiative to meet women after constant failures of being manipulated into what were called "relationships," I thought what my eyes beheld was nothing more than a fallacy dream...a fluke that was asking to be added to chips already piled on my mentally beaten shoulder.
Still, I pondered, what could've happened from a simple "hello?"
"SHE LIVED IN ANOTHER STATE YOU DUMB FUCKFACE!" I shouted as I chucked the tar-drenched penny sized cigarette butt into my portable ashtray, and set sail on a journey of nostalgia through the red white and blue Uncle Sam trail to low prices.
Doing my best Pelé impression, I flung a rock with the edge of my toe down the sidewalk, as the cob-webbed, dust bunny motors exhausted the entrance doors that squealed me in to a serene sight of deals, unique products, and a widely vacant store that was a farcry from long lines of hell.
I patted down my sherpa denim jacket and ran over my hair, doing my best Fonzie impression as I strutted down the walkway of the store for no one to even bat an eye at the "cool-guy" entrance I dreamt I was making. The only other customer that would've even peered in my direction was too busy burying his mind (and heart) into a Playboy magazine 3 cm from his face.
"Fücking pervert," I muttered as I continued my business as usual strut into the music section next to electronics. Now, being the obsessively vast collector of music, I always strived to buy any physical copies of CDs, Cassettes, or Vinyl at record stores. The philosophy behind this is well, buy music you love from people who love it too, not corporate hogwipes who sell music at discounted prices and are money-hungry profit-seeking robots.
In this instance though, I was at KMart, the coolest mecca of convenience in the USA. That alone made my usual philosophy as valid as a crackhead writing "Waiting is Poop-Confucius" on an Amusement Park Ride wall.
I earnestly began flipping through the assortments of cassette tapes with one goal in mind: to find a singular tape that would be the distraction backdrop on the still-remaining journey home (a constant hurtful reminder of my evening excursion). The tapes that kept towering under my antsy walking fingers sadly had a continuous trend of being Big-Whig Record Company compilation albums that were specifically made to sell to the masses and hitseeking music listeners of America. Of course I'm not going to shame them, as my enlightening Paul McCartney: All The Best cassette silently judges me from my audio shelf at home. But my mindset tonight was feeling something new, refreshing, an album that'd stand out as a unique surprise to raise my spirits and not be the same Steve Miller: Greatest Hits I enjoyed blasting on countless weepy nights of yesteryear.
"Rod Stewart, hot legs'd into the CD section, HUZZAH! Steve Winwood, two good songs. Billy Joel don't need any more o....WHAT IN THE MIAMI VICE SCARFACE BAYWATCH BEACH BLONDE BOMBER BS IS THIS?"
There, on the backend of the tape pile, was a four-dollar yellow-tagged clearance tape with the most Stock Miami Beach themed photo I've ever seen. Some artist decided that it'd be okay to plaster sketch drawings of Hall & Oates's faces, intermingle them with 90s squiggly-lined themed birthday party products, and call the finished album art "Change of Season."
"Wow" I wondered in amazement, "Hall & Oates went from hitmaking Out of Touch to having Tom Selleck as artistic director! I bet he's probably the behind the scenes drummer now too, knowing Miami Vice is at high risk for getting cancelled due to fetishizing ugly hawaiian shirts amongst the masses."
Despite being bewildered at the site of even seeing a current Hall & Oates album when all of their hits (and naturally, all of my favorite songs by them) were behind them in the 70s & 80s, I figured for four dollars, I'd bite my tongue and take the chance. I yanked the cassette off the rack, slightly tearing the clear plastic off the front cover, as I wandered over to grab a quick coffee from the ghostland KMart café before making my way to the beeps of capitalism and paycheck losses....the register line.
"One Coffee, this Beach Boys cassette, and a pack of Marlboro Reds please," I cheerfully exclaimed. The cashier glared at me as if I was the three-headed cyclops monster of Walmart coming to shut down the KMart Corporation, as she quickly scanned my items, grabbed her key, and slowly made her trek to unlock the Marlboro Horn-Trimmed themed Cigarette cabinet to unlock me some classic Cowboy Killers.
She teetered her way back to the register, scanned me up and down like an X-Ray machine, and sternly asked "ID please."
"Sure" I said, holding every ounce of annoyance in with a smile, as I fumbled out my wallet and ripped out the ID from the holder tab to hand over to her awaiting palm.
She took an investigative glance at my ID, looked up, and confusingly asked "you do realize there's a Surgeon General Warning on the side of these packs right?"
"Oh no really?" I sarcastically asked, as I stuffed my ID back into my pockets, grabbed the Marlboro Red pack, and did my own Sherlock Holmes impression glance at the package.
"Oh wow looks like you're right, didn't even realize there's a label here too that says 'mind your own business.'
"Sir, you're young and I'm only trying to look out for your well..."
"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME!" I yelled, as my Hulk Hogan veins fleshed out of my forehead. "IT'S MY CHOICE TO SMOKE BEING THE AGE I AM AND KNOWING THE RISK, SO WHY DON'T YOU MIND YOUR OWN FÜCKING BUSINESS AND LET ME BE ON MY WAY!"
I noticed a middle-aged, stereotypical looking science nerd who was the cliche choice for a Customer Service manager start to muster his way over to the register line before I halted his power tripping energy from ever opening his lips.
"ZIP IT AND TAKE A HIKE SCHWARZENEGGER!"
He stopped dead in his tracks, peering at me nervously as if he had to dreadfully tell the preschool teacher he pooped his pants and needed to go home.
The Cashier continued "I wasn't trying to be rude, its just.."
"ITS JUST WHAT??" I hollered "CRITICIZING MY LIFESTYLE CHOICES WHEN YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT MY PERSONAL LIFE? TRY WORKING A JOB YOU HATE ON A DAILY BASIS, WHERE COWORKERS BELITTLE YOUR EVERY MOVE AS IF YOU WERE THE SORRIEST, PIECE OF SHÍT EMPLOYEE THE COMPANY EVER DECIDED TO HIRE. TRY COMING HOME FROM SAID JOB, THEN HAVING TO DEAL WITH YOUR FAMILY DRINKING AROUND YOU 24/7, MAKING A FOOL OUT OF THEMSELVES AND DESTROYING THEIR LIVES, WHEN ALL YOU WANT TO DO IS REST AND HAVE AN ACTUAL FAMILY MEMBER TO CHAT WITH WITHOUT THEIR MIND BEING ALTERED TO GARBLED PERSONALITY CHANGING ALCOHOLIC BS!"
I breathed heavily and took what felt like only a millisecond break, glancing at the ring on the cashier's finger.
"You have a husband, a FAMILY?"
She had her head down, and with barely craning her neck muscles, she gave the most subtle nod not even the most observant chess player would've easily noticed.
"MUST BE NICE TO FIND TRUE LOVE WHEN ALL I'VE ALSO BEEN FED IN LIFE IS MANIPULATIVE WOMEN WHO'VE USED MY AFFECTION AND PERSONALITY AS A WAY TO EASE THEIR BOREDOM FOR A WHILE, THEN TOSS ME OFF INTO THE ISLAND OF MISFIT TOYS. BE THANKFUL YOU HAVE YOUR FAMILY AND PEOPLE THAT CARE ABOUT YOU, AND UNDERSTAND NOW WHY I'M ENTITLED TO ONE UNHEALTHY VICE THAT HELPS ME REPRESS THESE EXPERIENCES WHILE NOT ALTERING MY BRAIN TO THE POINT OF STUPIDITY. HERE'S A 20 DOLLAR BILL, KEEP THE FÙCKING CHANGE!"
I turned forward like a Marine marching for drill, and stormed out of the store, leaving my testosterone fueled oxygen puffing out of my nose as the only evidence left to the perverted old guy that I ever stepped foot into KMart. I ripped open the car door, slammed the already-lifeless hinges shut, and sat in place while my heavy breathing gradually led into relaxed, normal oxygen intake once again.
"FÜCK this all, I'm getting out of here."
I peeled open my new pack of Marlboro Reds, breaking the Guinness World Record for fastest opening of a cigarette pack, and lit a cigarette, as I let the orange glow of the ash lighten my car to be able to pop in the new Cassette Tape I had questionable uncertainties of ever even purchasing.
"Here's to a hopefully tasty soundtrack to a depressing ride home. Take it away Daryl and Mustachio Man!"
With a Marlboro dangling out of my mouth like a farmer sucking on a tobacco leaf, I began to shift my car into DRIVE, until I suddenly noticed a woman walking into the front entrance of KMart.
"Wait a minute, is that..."
Just as I was noticing the familiar view before me, the radio in my car kicked on in error, as the overjoyed announcer bursted out the news of the station's next record spin.
"Good evening Radio 102.3 listeners. Next up on the broadcast for tonight, an underrated track from Hall & Oates' recent album Change of Season from 1990. Most of you know em for their 'Out of Touch' days, but wait until you hear this HIT!"
The car speakers started pulsating with an infectious intro beat.
DUN DAH DUN
DUN DAH DUN
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