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Senses of Adventure
Every inch I slid into the passenger seat produced a sound akin to nails on a chalkboard. That sound paled in comparison to the feeling of burning leather on my exposed skin. I imagined it being like a child slowly peeling apart the Velcro of their shoes. But the shoes have run ragged and have begun pulling up leather with every tug. I was promised adventure! However this had begun to seem like the misguided adventures promised to a lobster that is being led to it's heated pot.
I turned the air conditioning knob to max and felt no relief. Only regret. I was greeted by what I can only assume were flames. I was unable to make visual confirmation to that fact. The pungent smell of stale cigarettes made sure of that. You know that kind of stench. The kind of smell that matches the capabilities of flame to simultaneously burn both your nostrils and eyes. Smell capable of wilting a flower faster than this overwhelming heat and sun. Oh that sun. In my frenzied reaction, my flailing arms had flung my sunglasses through the open window onto the highway. The sun visor had met a similar fate by the hands of a previous passenger. Perhaps it's sharing shelter with my sunglasses on I-95 at the moment.
Sight? Gone. Smell? Unfortunate. Feel? *internal screams*. Sound? Thank god there wasn't a pencil nearby, because it'd already be well acquainted with my eardrum. My bestfriend may have been behind the wheel, but the radio made sure to exclaim that Jesus was driving the car. I may not be a religious man, but I respect that others might be. That respect, much like my sunglasses, was left on I-95 after the fifth portrayal in the last hour of wheels on the bus sung by the fourth grade boys church choir.
Rather than provoke my driving friend, I dug my fingers into the tears of my seat's leather and gritted my teeth something fierce. So fierce that after the first ten seconds I could hear my dentist complaining about it in my head as he writes my imagination a prescription for a mouth guard. You'd think we were in a convertible from how high my friend joyously bounced in his seat to his cassette of "Hymns for Him." Meanwhile, my "rock fist" had been facepalmed into my forehead as I traveled down the Highway To Hell.
Last, but not least. Taste. Taste in music? Much to be desired. Taste in company? You'd struggle to find a more gung ho companion than my friend. I overflow with envy when it comes to his ability to rain positivity on my depression parade. As far as literal taste? Freedom! Followed by asphalt. Followed by a taste likened to a sock full of dirty pennies. I couldn't tell who was screaming louder. Me? Or my dentist from the appointment I had in two weeks.
At sixty-five miles per hour I flung open the passenger side door and gave my best portrayal of Icarus I could. I took solace in the fact we had both been defeated by the sun. That solace was short lived as my expression of wonder met the pavement my teeth now plundered. I had forsaken adventure for a quick departure. I'd exchanged the sun's provided burns for those the asphalt had in waiting.
Waiting. The waiting room had one singular occupant. My bestfriend. My shepherd of adventure. As I regained consciousness I was berated by a familiar sound from rooms away. "Side one. Hymns For Him."
I smiled to myself as I took one last swan dive onto the floor. All tubes once connecting me to machine flung amiss. I continued on with my adventure to a soundtrack of the beeping machines. Driven by my companion. Icarus.
