driving

Slip out at the end of the day, purse strap over shoulder and CDs in hand, and look east; the hills, visible over Huntsville’s skyline, are darkening fast. Look west, toward my commute, and the sun might’ve hung around for one last metaphorical cup of coffee but is more than likely on its way to say hello to the next time zone over.

The leaves threw themselves like lemmings across the road and I threw the Jetta from ‘drive’ to ‘slalom,’ tucking my earpiece into my left ear and beginning to dial. Fall had lit northeastern Alabama to incandescence, each leaf a sun-dappled facet, each turn an autumnal surprise.”I’m going to be early,” I said, looking down at my speedometer and wishing desperately for any errand on the northwest side of town that could cause me to avoid inconveniencing the person on the other end of the conversation.

Flip the clock to ‘wake’ and it says 9:05. My watch currently says 12:59; it’d be in my best interests to make good on my weeks-old threat to get at least some sleep before attempting to roll directly from my bed to the car.

I’d love to tell you where it began, but the truth is that I don’t remember. Instead, I have to choose a beginning point, arbitrary though it is, and begin from there.

The speed limit on the Cutoff was 40, but anyone with half a brain knew that the cops never policed that section of road, because there was no place for them to park, and even if there was, Bauxite didn’t have cops anyway. The descent to the paved-over area where the railroad track used to be was one such that if you hit it at just the right speed, your car wouldn’t go airborne, but you would.

Just for a moment, you would fly.

Total spams received in absence: 163.

Two hours into the drive home. Silence. After so few hours in the car, have we managed to say everything there is to say?

Three dragon*con staff meetings down, none to go. Last night, everyone marveled that dragon*con was already upon us, a sentiment made even more absurd by the frequent follow-up: "It's been so long since I've seen you!"

The battle lines at 'con are always so simple at the third and penultimate meeting. Us against them. 'They' are the attendees, other staffers, and guests - anyone who doesn't know who we are, what we do, or manages to keep us from doing what needs doing at that particular moment.

Five-thirty.  The needle of my speedometer was arguing with the signs on the side of the road; the needle argued sixty and the sign argued fifty-five.  The needle won, as it usually does.

Forty minutes later I was slaloming through some of the better curves between Huntsville and Nashville, forty-three miles south of Nashville and tracking north a little faster than was legally allowed. My brain had momentarily shifted out of autopilot. Had I put all the John Sayles DVDs in my netflix queue? Did I feed the cats before I left? (Yes.) Locked the door? Remembered to put the memory card back into the camera?

Yes, and yes again.

When the curves passed, monotony returned.  The hills were unrolling themselves in the direction of Nashville, slopes flattening and gentling with each passing mile.  Cows spotted the landscape, eagerly munching on grass that had only recently greened from spring rain.