Wheel

“Isn't it strange, how people all use things in the same way? How ubiquitous small things become?”

It's too hot for such a tedious conversation. The windows are down in the beater, but in this dead-stop traffic there's no breeze playing through them. I say nothing. The one good thing about him is that he can carry the conversation all on his own. He really only cares what he's thinking, anyway. I let my eyes drift from the little, stick-on family on the van in front of us to catch his own. He takes this as a sign to proceed.

“Like, you have this necklace hanging here from the mirror. And look next to us,” I glance in Miss Hybrid’s car and see a sparkling, crystal pendulum hanging. “She couldn't be more different than us, but look at her. Windows up, air cranked, brand new car. But what's she using her rear-view for? To hang shit on. If we look around, I'd bet most of these cars have a lanyard or keychain or bandanna hanging in their front window. It doesn't matter what the car or where they came from. It's just what you do. It's not what the mirror’s there for. But everyone does it. Just like bumper stickers. Or sticking your bills and calendars on the fridge…”

He has more examples, but I start to lose focus. I pull my fingers through my hair and tip my head back. I turn the music up, and he goes on louder. He will never notice that he has lost my attention. Even when he concludes with some finale of his grand take on the world. Even when I don't respond. He won't have noticed. He will begin to inform me of some other thought that just slipped through his mind and became a novel worth of ideas. He's content to just talk. He's right. About most things, he's right. But the droning. It just turns to buzzing. I don't care about the stupid antler hanging from the pick-up truck behind us or Mr. Car Worth More Than Our House’s hanging air freshener. Micro is macro. I get it. I just don't care. I care that this traffic isn't moving. I care that it's so hot that I'm sweating sitting still. I care that we’re late on the mortgage and that right now, he's late for a side job, which will make us more late on the mortgage. Macro is micro. That's probably not the same. But for every stupid rear-view mirror with some talisman hanging on for dear life, there's a driver with a million problems. And I care that they all just run together. The mortgage is late, the house isn't clean, work makes me stressed, no money makes me stressed. I care that everything is just a problem. And I care that he is still talking. Why is he still talking? We’ve moved up a few cars, and the shitty twin to my shitty car that sits next to us is filled to bursting with arguing, crying kids. And in the front, a screaming mother. They inspire him to go in depth on how the different classes discipline. And he's right. He's full of shit. And he's right. And he's still talking. And we finally hit the exit. And I finally let the car pick up speed. And we are coming around the bend too fast. And he's talking. And the kids’ crying is ringing in my head. And then we aren't turning. And we’re flying. And the beater has grown wings. And he's not talking. And I'm not talking. And no one’s crying. And there are no talisman hanging from any mirrors. There's just the sky where there should be ground and the ground where there should be sky. And macro and micro and whatever else. And I think I used it right that time.