The Long Way Home

The Long Way Home
I took the long way home from work that night; something about the freeway seemed just too easy and quick. So, I drove the stop-and-go city streets all the way home. And I drove slow because I was in no means eager to get to my home: angry parents and that damned thing I call a room. Thus, I switched on some minimal from Norway to romance me across those long drawn out streets that intersect the way we did, once. But now I have grown unsure of this all much like a man becomes unsure of his religion, just every once in a while. Driving easily I note how streetlights seem to streak past like shooting stars; I make a wish one as I breeze through another green light. The minimal moves syncronus with the street in the corner of my eye so pleasantly I feel as if it were a dream. Raised trucks and lowered home-made racecars shoot past me; both of them are driven by men trying to prove just that; that they are indeed men. It’s a sad show of overloaded testosterone that I gave up on years ago when I realized no matter how greasy I got with my father beneath his broken muscle car I would never be as machismo as he; thus I gave up.
I hit a red light. At this pause I breathe a heavy prolonged sigh. The streetlights, buildings, parked cars, every spec reflecting light, and, even the heavenly bodies themselves, were perfectly align. Everything was finally in it’s right place. And then green. I drove on down the road that easily morphed into another via a sleek right turn where the arrow is always green. The minimal at that moment seemed as though it could glide into jazz led by Miles Davis as easy as—diddly_diddly_boom boom boom_dooowop--that.
An hour later I arrived at my street. I parked and sat a moment. A refreshing breeze came through my car window; brushed across my face and ruffled my hair slightly as a lover may. That was it; I was home again.


© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.