I-77 south at 3:00 AM. I haven’t been out this late on purpose since 1993. The snow falls through my headlights; the dark on the side of the highway is so quiet.
I’m driving back home with my son and his friend asleep in the back seat. We spent the evening at the House of Blues at a Zed show. I can’t call it a concert because he played computers; I’m not sure any of the music was anything created by his hand touching what most people would identify as an instrument. He was a conductor, a pied piper, a merry prankster.
And the crowd came for the lights, the beats, and whatever they were passing out near the bathroom. I remember Grateful Dead concerts and this was mild in comparison.
The crowd, drunk and high and with fluid boundaries. The lights flashed pink and blue and gold and green while Zed, who was just a head behind a wall, mixed music like a 21st century warlock, all shiny and half-smiling.
When it’s over, the house lights come up. We stumble over each other to break out into the freezing January night. The storm has set in and we make our way to the car, our ears buzzing. We are exhausted and not at all tired.
Ten minutes on the highway and the boys are asleep in the back seat. Across the quiet now, I hear a rumbling from the rear wheel. I’ve owned mostly old beater cars my whole life, so I have a sense what’s ok and what isn’t. Engine noises can often be ignored. Tire noises are never good.
But it’s 3:00 AM. My husband is asleep and we are 30 minutes from home. I grip the steering wheel. I remind myself of the complicated mechanics of wheels and axles, telling myself it’s a loose ball bearing. It’s a loose ball bearing.
We make it. I pull into the garage and turn to wake them. They are sleeping. Even if they were 25, I would still see the baby in the them. They pull themselves awake and stumble a bit towards the door. My son looks up and says, “When did it start snowing?”
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