To The Old Guy In The Car at the Stoplight

March. Driving home, the sun is low enough and bright enough that we put on our sunglasses. Our beer is cheap and our car is used, but at this point in our life, without shame, we spend serious money on sunglasses.

We’re alone in the car and turn the music up. Whatever we like best--the bass, the drum, the high notes--fills the car, then the road, then our life. The song takes over, and for a moment, we are 23 and we just got paid. We’re adults now and work hard, but we have not yet settled down. 

We play the drums on the steering wheel; we sing backup and then we sing lead. We have a full band behind us and then, suddenly, we’re alone on stage. Unplugged. We are rock and roll, rhythm and blues, country and western and punk. We are the Walt Whitman of post-modern, not a title we claim, but one we cannot deny.

If only there was a way to channel this musical genius, if only the world was ready for this crazy daze. 

The sun. The car. Our glasses. So sweet, it’s almost unbearable. 

Almost.

At the stoplight, the old man in the Corolla next to us has his window down and he’s trying to tell us something. We know what it is. We know what he wants. Smile a little.

Not today, old man. Today, we are not as old as we think.