We are on our way to Washington D.C. riding in the Buick Skylark.  You are determined to get our family there in the fastest possible time.  You drive on the service road when the traffic moves too slowly for you.  There are no “rest” or bathroom stops or breaks for food. 

My brother, sister and I shift from side to side in the backseat as you move forward at the speed of light.  No seat belts to keep us secured as you maneuver the car at 90 mph with your knees so you can cut Hungarian kielbasa with a knife while eating and driving at the same time.  My sister and I have to pee.  You are angry and pull over to the side of the road so we can relieve ourselves as we waste three precious minutes of your record-breaking time. 

I am mortified.

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I haven’t seen you in ten years.  Your mother used to drive in the figure skating carpool and her vehicle always looked and felt like a dumpster turned inside out.  The foul odor is a combination of milk turned sour, spoiled food and unwashed hair.  You pick me up to go out for lunch and I realize that you inherited her same sense of décor and lack of hygiene.

I am embarrassed.

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You hand me the keys and tell me I’m going to drive.  It’s a brand new Corvette with less than 100 miles on its odometer.  The sleek, red car rides low and the gas pedal responds to my foot with incredible sensitivity, like men will later respond to my mouth.  Everything about being in that car accelerates my heart.  I feel like a million, sexy bucks.

I am too young.

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We are driving on a freeway in Tampa, going to see some concert.  There are five of us.  It begins to rain.  Hard.  The steam rises from the pavement and through the haze, I see the oil and water, unable to mix.  A motorcycle comes up behind us, fast, and then passes us, closely.  I tell you to get over to the shoulder.  I see, no, I feel the accident before it happens.  The motorcycle starts quivering, unable to compete with the slick road, incapable of avoiding the 18-wheeler that is sucking it under its belly with its centrifugal force.

I am paralyzed by the fear of my own knowing.

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We renew our friendship after my return from being away in school in London.  We have both changed.  You are the first round of “crazy” I will witness or deal with in my life, but certainly not the last.  We agree to go out disco dancing.  We get on that same freeway I have avoided since the motorcycle incident and the memory of that, combined with the voices that start speaking from your head makes me ponder my escape as I clutch the door handle and negotiate with one of you to save both of our lives. 

We arrive at the disco and I know there is no turning back.  It costs me the equivalent of one month of my college spending money to hire a cab so I can return home alive.  The next day I learn that a few hours after I left you, you vaulted your car off the Courtney Campbell Causeway and careened into the Gulf of Mexico.

I am traumatized.

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It is bitter cold and London is filled with hard-as-rock snow.  I have flown in for Chris and Trina’s wedding.  Enough years have past since you broke my heart and even though you are in the driver’s seat, I am finally in control.  Different year, different Jaguar, different me.  You haven’t been feeling well and we learn together that you have aggressive MS.  You pull up near Harrods and ask me to listen to a song.  You hit “play” and I hear Placido Domingo and John Denver sing “Perhaps Love”, as if they had written it for you, for me.   I openly weep and understand that this is the closest thing to an apology or an explanation I will ever receive and that there’s no time like the present.  The future has no guarantees.

I am broken-hearted.  Again.

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We are in the parking lot of the super market.  In the harsh glare of the sun and potential passersby, you reach for me.  You kiss me hungrily, like no other man ever has or ever will.  Your hands roam freely and I allow them to meander, as if you are reading the map of my body in Braille.  I whimper and moan from your touch.  I live for these stolen moments and wish that time could stand still.  But the meter of life says otherwise.  We live on opposite ends of the earth and are parked elsewhere in our lives.

I am driven crazy.  By love.