Freeway Welcome

The red, white, and blue lights shone through Jimmy's rear windshield, flashing along the car dashboard. He knew he hadn't been speeding, so wondered what aggravation approached to his left in the form of a burly local cop. The orange Southern California sun had begun its nightly descent.

"Good evening, Officer, what can I—"

"License and registration."

"Okay, what's the—"

"License and registration."

"Okay." Jimmy reached for his wallet and then into the glove compartment, and handed over his stuff. The Officer, whose name Jimmy could see to be Jones on the bronze tag pinned to his light blue uniform, took a long look over the identification cards, then walked in a full circle around the car and returned to its driver's side.

"You're registered in Pennsylvania, but you don't have a plate up front. I've seen Pennsylvania cars before and they have plates in the front and back, why don't you?"

"Sir, I've lived in Philadelphia my entire life, and I can assure you that Pennsylvania only issues a license plate for the back of a car, not the front and back." Jimmy wondered whether Officer Jones was ignorant or what else might be at play here. The answer came when Jones accepted Jimmy's explanation without further inquiry.

"Alright. What are you doing in California?"

"I'm living here for a few months, staying with friends."

"You'll have to get Cali plates, otherwise you're looking at steep fines."

This gave Jimmy pause. "But Officer, I just told you, I'll only be here a few months, then I'm going back to Philly."

"That's what they all say. Better register your car."

"Yes sir, I won't be staying more than a few months, but if that changes, I'll do it."

Jones glanced at a shiny steel case sitting on the back seat, one that looked as if it might be handcuffed to a high roller on his way into a casino. He asked, "What's in the case?"

"Do I really have to answer that question?" Jimmy asked, agitation getting the better of his senses.

The look on Jones' face told of disapproval. "Stay right where you are," he needlessly ordered Jimmy as he turned and marched back toward his squad car.

"Wait!" shouted Jimmy. "I was just kidding! I'll tell you what's in there, it's not even a big deal!" But Jones either ignored him or didn't hear him as cars and trucks flew past them on the freeway.

Twenty minutes later a second patrol car pulled up as the sun faded out of sight. Jones returned to Jimmy's car door, another Officer – Smith – by his side.

"Officer Jones, the case is just—"

"Silence! We'll see for ourselves."

Smith opened the back door and gently, slowly, carefully removed the case from the seat. He set it down on the car's trunk and opened it.

"Jonesy, come here and have a look."

As Jones obeyed, Jimmy sat and tapped his foot up and down in place. Minutes passed and he wondered what the policemen could possibly be discussing. Finally, they approached the driver's side window together. Smith spoke first. "Say, why didn't you tell Jonesy you're a poker player?"

"Huh? Oh, I wanted to tell him it's just a set of poker chips, but—"

"But you had to be a smartass instead, didn't you?" said Jones.

This time Jimmy kept his mouth shut. Smith said, "Anyhow, listen, Jonesy and I do security for some underground poker games on the side – everything from a few hundred dollar buy in to some big money." Baffled Jimmy accepted a business card from Officer Smith. "Give a call to that number on there," Smith continued, "and someone will give you the weekly schedule of games."

Jones handed Jimmy back his license and registration. "Have a nice night," he said, "you're free to go."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jimmy drove away. When he arrived home without his set of poker chips, he assumed the cops had stolen it. But he just hadn't heard the thud his shiny silver case made when it fell from the trunk of his car as he sped off, splashing the freeway's shoulder with plastic chips and playing cards.

Patty's Green Prelude

Leaves fell from the car’s roof when Patty opened the passenger door.  The lever releasing the shotgun seat had been, for a few years now, nearly impossible for his friends to budge, but he knew the trick.  He slid his chest onto the back seat and glided his hands over cigarette burns to where the cushions met, reached between them, looking for the miniature orange and blue woven wool satchel his favorite girl had given him for his birthday.

Patty proceeded to check every crevice of his ’89 Prelude’s interior, lifting the splotchily stained floor mats, removing some books and debris from beneath the front seats.  An old Doors cassette nestled within a tear in the center console, 'Waiting for the Sun,' saw its first daylight in years, but no satchel.

All hope lost, he retreated from the car and stood staring at it: bungee cords holding its back bumper in place, rear wheel missing a hubcap, scratched metallic green paint.

Resigned to visit the girl without the small pouch and its contents, he climbed into the driver’s seat through the passenger side door, just because it was already open.  He popped in the old Doors tape and listened to 'Love Street' as he drove to her apartment.

When he arrived and parked the Prelude, something unexpectedly fell to the pavement.  He looked down and there it was.  Must’ve been lodged between the door and the driver’s seat all along, he thought, smiling.  As he walked the front steps of the apartment building, he turned back toward his worn old ride.  It seemed like the car was winking at him: one headlight open and the other one shut.  For all of the vehicle’s frequent malfunctions, Patty couldn’t recall any headlight issues, but his memory may have been foggy.

(Listen to The Doors' 'Love Street' here)

Untimely

He drove up 5^th Street every day.  Often times on Saturdays, on the blocks approaching Lehigh Avenue, young girls jumped rope on the sidewalk and sang songs.  He always enjoyed seeing them play together, hearing their innocent voices.

Today he saw people dressed in black gathered outside one of the neighborhood’s many connected row homes.  Attached to and all around a telephone pole were large and small, pink and white and brown teddy bears, dolls, drawings and paintings that only could’ve been made by children.

“No.”  He said it out loud, alone in his small pickup truck.  “Please, no.”

He pulled over to the side of the road, shut the engine.  He’d seen these around the city from time to time, teddy bear vigils, as he referred to them internally, and they always made him feel sick, upset, disgusted.  Violent crimes around the city were bad enough when they involved adults.  But kids, a little girl, he didn’t even know her and yet his heart sank.  Maybe it wasn’t murder, he thought.  Could’ve been a car accident or something else but either way, she’s gone. 

I should go inside, he told himself, pay my respects.  Everyone should stop by and pay their respects, the entire city.  Everyone should do it even though nobody can bring her back.  All the love and regrets in the world won’t bring her back.

He reached for the door handle and nearly opened it, but something stopped him, a sudden realization that he’d only be trying to make himself feel better, that nobody who’d actually known the girl would want him there.  What could he say?  “Hi, I don’t know you, but I drive past your house every day, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry for your loss.”  Too weird, he decided.  Too presumptuous. 

He wiped away the beginnings of a tear and turned the ignition.  The radio came back on and a caller argued vehemently with Jon Marks and Sean Brace for the Eagles to sign Plaxico Burress.  He drove the rest of the way to work without listening.  He just imagined the young girls he’d seen last week jumping rope on the sidewalk, singing songs.

Neurosis

Must wash hands thoroughly.  Between fingers, around nails, across palms, can’t miss a spot.  Okay, they’re clean.  How long has this towel hung here?  Should I get a new one?  No, it’s okay, recently changed it.  Must dry hands thoroughly before using lotion.  Hand lotion’s important on these cold winter days.  Okay, time to go.

No!  What’s that?  How did that happen?  What is it, dirt from boots?  I really thought I wiped them well on the mat last night, but apparently not.  Can’t leave for work with that dirt on the floor but hands are perfect right now.  No, that’s no excuse.  Need to do what’s right even if it means washing and drying and moisturizing hands all over again.  Can’t ignore the mess. . . .

Alright, the floor is clean and hands are all set and I’ll still arrive early to work.  Thank goodness for garages; without one I’d be at the carwash twice as often.  It’s a lovely day to drive.  Mr. Mozart, speak to me.

Hitting all the lights today it seems.  Who’s that at the bus stop?  Do I know her?  I swear she’s staring straight at me!  Can she see the blemish on my cheek?  No, she can’t see my left side from that angle.  Don’t make eye contact.  Will this light ever turn green? 

Oh you couldn’t help yourself, could you?  Had to look her way again and still she stares.  Does she know me?  What if she pulls a gun from inside her jacket and shoots me?  I’m defenseless!  Ah, green light, thank goodness.

It’s okay.  Mozart, perfection.  At least these red lights prolong our time together this morning.  But wait, who’s that man in the car next to me?  Why did he turn to look in this direction?  He nodded!  It’s okay, just nod back.  He’s smiling!  Is that grin some clever ruse?  He could bump me off the road!  Green light, let him go first.  Ah, it’s okay, he’s driving along now.  Hey, who’s honking?  Oh, the car behind me, maybe they’re working together!  The first one knew his nod would stall me just as this one knew his honk would rush me. . . .

No, don’t be silly, it’s okay.  Just enjoy the music and get to work.  No more distractions.

But wait, who’s that crossing the street? 

Overpopulation

He could feel her glare as he drove their sedan away from the quiet, suburban street.  They passed snow covered trees surrounding picturesque stone houses and rode over rock salt, plenty of it sure to stick between tire treads.  Soon they’d be back in the city, where a layer of litter hid beneath the snow for now, until the sun would eventually reveal it, dirtier than ever.

“What did you think of the name?”

She waited a few moments before answering him.  “I like it.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes before he broke it.  He knew he should apologize for what happened earlier, and yet, he said, “Look, there’s no reason to have a coed baby shower.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?  I didn’t see any other husbands there making a scene!”

“I didn’t make a scene.  The guy asked what I do for a living and I told him.”

“Yeah, I know, Mark, I know.”  She raised her voice.  “I know all about it.  You told him you’re studying overpopulation and its effect on global resources.  You told him your conclusion: two kids per family.  Didn’t you know he and his wife have four kids?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Couldn’t you have just said you’re a scientist?  I mean, why would you bring up overpopulation at a baby shower?  Don’t you think maybe it’s, um, I don't know, not the best topic?”

“Alright, alright.  I’m sorry.  I’ll call the guy tomorrow and apologize.  I certainly didn’t mean for the conversation to turn toward vasectomies.”

“Okay, fine.  Just so you know I was mortified when I heard the two of you shouting all the way from the kitchen, but it’s fine, I’ll get over it.”

“Thanks Sheila.”

They took the Broad Street exit and were on their way home when he suggested they head to Chinatown for an early dinner.  He agreed to stop at her favorite place rather than his, and they were on good terms once again.  His fortune cookie, full of wisdom, told him there's a time to swallow pride.  He thought of China’s one-child-per-family policy and decided he stood firmly against it, though he would’ve understood if the limit were set at two.  He himself had always wanted at least three children, but he’d never told anyone, not even his wife.

Chance Arrival

It’s destiny, he thinks.  Everything else led to sitting upstairs at the Tap by the window and looking out onto the moonlit façade of the old building across the street.

Sitting at the bar moments earlier, something made him rise and walk to the empty table and chair by the window and now that he’s here, somehow he just knows he’s found his place.

He arrived in Philadelphia yesterday.  Riding shotgun from Chicago after half an hour with his thumb in the air, no destination in mind as he waited for a willing driver, the long haired young dude who picked him up popping Mini Thins to make the drive nonstop after partying all night with his buddy’s band, he decided Philly was as good as any other city to start fresh.  All he knew of the place were cheesesteaks, a famous cracked bell, and the Rocky movies.

His chauffeur, speaking a mile a minute because of the Mini Thins, told him he’d like Philly and especially his neighborhood, though the best place to stay is one neighborhood south, he said, the hostel in Old City.  He didn’t say much because of the kid’s constant yapping, which suited him just fine, and when the fourteen hour drive came to its conclusion, the kid dropping him off on the corner of Bank and Chestnut, he wasn’t sure about an invitation to meet for beers the following night, but here he is.

Now seated and looking out into the calm night with scattered voices and lo-fi music combining to create a steady, energetic hum, he wouldn’t be able to explain it, but he knows he’s here to stay.

Drew's Drive

Drew turns left onto 8th Street off Callowhill and sees the line of cars backing up the entrance to 676 West.  He takes a deep breath and holds it for about four seconds before he exhales.  Another morning drive from the city to Valley Forge.

He thinks of today’s schedule as his black Ford Fusion passes the Broad Street exit.  Meetings to attend, phone calls to make, countless emails from people who expect prompt responses. 

A dark green Jeep Cherokee comes to an abrupt halt in front of Drew and he taps the brakes just as he sips his coffee and some of the coffee spills onto his khaki pants.  “Shit,” he says out loud to nobody.  He tries to wipe away the coffee with his hand, but only makes the stain bigger.

Suddenly Drew’s thoughts cease and he feels trapped, like his life is a record being played over and over again and he doesn’t much like the song. 

He turns the radio to 88.5 and hears a few guitar strokes before familiar lyrics at a different tempo from a voice he doesn’t recognize.  It’s Outkast’s 'Hey Ya,' an acoustic version.  The original was hot while he was a student without a care in the world, and though this cover slows the pace, it transports him to a time when he was free, each day unfolding on a whim.

The song ends and for a moment he’s thankful for his life, his family, his and their health.  Forty five minutes later he arrives at his office and goes through the motions, gets through the day with a stain on his pants and a tune stuck in his head.

(Listen to Obadiah Parker's acoustic cover of Outkast's 'Hey Ya' here)