The Drive Home
By Conner Slayton
You wish you could find it in you to be bored. When you were a kid, you would sit and imagine a runner out the side window. He would hop over obstacles and twirl around poles, always just a step behind. You had a weird relationship with that runner. This mix of the desire to see it go faster and finish the race bubbled deep inside with the fear that it might catch you. You knew that other kids played this game with slightly different rules, and sometimes the runner was a dog, a cat, or a saw blade cutting down every tree. The others weren’t scared, and you knew your fear was silly, even then. You liked the runner; it was your playmate. That was when you were a kid, though. You aren’t a kid anymore, sitting in the squeaky, heated passenger seat and trying to understand the weird feeling time holds for you on long drives. It’s better when you’re with someone, well, as long as it’s someone you could talk to.
Long rides are supposed to be a place to have conversations you wouldn’t find time for otherwise. Like playing silly games or watching a movie you otherwise couldn't possibly justify wasting the two hours on. You can feel your mother’s eyes boring into the back of your skull. She should be watching the road. No, she’s responsible, you remind yourself; you are sure she is watching it. You hear her shift. You adjust the vents, which had been blowing air just a little bit too cold right on your face. You recognize the gas station as it passes, that big old Elvis sign still smiling at you, implying he stopped there once. God… you haven’t passed that gas station since you were a kid. It used to be your favorite place to take a bathroom break on vacations. Dad would buy you a… what was it called? You think to turn, to ask, but you stop yourself.
Mother picks up speed. The seatbelt is suddenly far too heavy on your chest, so you lift it a bit, and your breath fogs up the side window. You haven’t done anything wrong. Not really. You got good grades in your classes and went out the right amount of times to make friends and dated a few approvable partners, but you never lost focus on why you were there. Dad was okay with the unapprovable one anyways. You steal a glance to the left and see that mother’s knuckles are white on the new leather of her steering wheel. She’s watching the road. That should reassure you; you tell yourself it does. A semi-truck passes, and its horn, a bellow of a greeting, breaks the black-ice silence. You miss the runner. He would be out of shape, you think, and you stifle a laugh—mother shifts again. You wonder whether you would be scared of the runner catching you if you saw him now. No, you wouldn’t. You smirk, careful to keep mother from seeing.
THE END
Author Bio: Conner Slayton is a writer and “The Drive Home” is his very first published piece.