{"id":64824,"date":"2014-01-11T12:00:27","date_gmt":"2014-01-11T17:00:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=64824"},"modified":"2014-01-10T23:19:13","modified_gmt":"2014-01-11T04:19:13","slug":"a-new-years-drive","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/01\/11\/a-new-years-drive\/","title":{"rendered":"A New Year\u2019s Drive"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"1968_White_Ford_Thunderbird_Fordor_interior\"<\/a>

Photo: Morven, via Wikimedia Commons<\/p><\/div>\n

My father bought me a Swiss watch when I was seven. The strap was too big and needed adjusting, but when I could finally put it on, I felt a surge of electricity pulse through me, as if I\u2019d just been shackled to time\u2019s wrist. No matter what I did, I couldn\u2019t get the ticking of the second hand to sync up with the beat of my heart.<\/p>\n

I stopped wearing it and kept it in my pocket, only later finding the proper use for it: timing the forty-fives I bought and listened to in my room, checking the accuracy of the time on the label to the time on my watch. The Beatles\u2019 singles, I found, all listed the correct times. The Rolling Stones\u2019 singles, not so much. They\u2019d often claim their songs were fifteen or twenty seconds shorter than they really were, hoping to get more airplay from DJs, who would often opt for a song they could run right into the news break. For me, it was the first hint that time was negotiable, that with the right connections no one had to pay full price for an hour. That being the case, what was the point of a watch? I haven\u2019t worn one since. <\/p>\n

* * *<\/center><\/p>\n

Not long after, I started waking up in the night with bad, bad dreams about cars, nightmares of being behind a wheel somewhere on a highway, lost and panicked, cars whizzing by, the sun going down, nothing whatsoever on the radio. I was a New York City kid. Cars were nothing but trouble. You had to know where you were going. Then you had to go there. And then<\/i>\u00a0you had to park. This was far too linear for my tastes.<\/p>\n

The summer I was seventeen, my folks sent me to California to visit my brother on his ranch and to get my license. He was an angry and solitary man, caught in a deep internal debate with himself that he kept losing.\u00a0He took me off in his Ford to an abandoned stretch of road and had me get behind the wheel.<\/p>\n

\u201cPay attention,\u201d he said. And then he said it again.<\/p>\n

\u201cWatch the road,\u201d he barked. There was nothing to watch. \u201cWatch the road.\u201d<\/p>\n

The clock on the dashboard kept blinking the wrong time. I pointed this out, and he made me pull over and get out. I thought he might leave me there, but he had me switch over to the passenger side, and we drove back to his house in silence.<\/p>\n

The next day, he called a friend who worked at the sheriff\u2019s office, and I took my driver\u2019s test on a tractor. There wasn\u2019t much driving involved, and I passed. Within the hour, he\u2019d put me on a bus to San Francisco. He even paid for the ticket.<\/p>\n

Later, maybe a\u00a0year or two later, when I was in Providence, a pretty girl named Marianne stopped by my place on Hope Street right after New Year\u2019s. She was driving to Fox Point, over on the east side of town. Did I want to go with her? She had soft dark hair and lost eyes, and she looked like a flower with a hangover. Of course I wanted to go.<\/p>\n

We drove to Gano Street, and she bought tea with nettles, a loaf of Portuguese sweet bread, a box of blank cassettes, and some hair products. The caf\u00e9 was closed, the nail salon was busy, and the music store had nothing but old fado<\/i> albums in the window. We walked back to her car, and she handed me the keys. \u201cI feel dizzy,\u201d she said. \u201cDo you mind driving back?\u201d This didn\u2019t seem like the right time to mention my lack of automotive skills. I got in. My priority was looking cool. I rolled my window down and rested my elbow on the window frame. My head was tilted just so, something by The Kinks was on the radio, and the sun was shining. I got on the highway. I wasn\u2019t doing too badly.<\/p>\n

I got off the highway onto Wickenden Street. No one had ever told me that when you get off a highway you slow down, but it didn\u2019t feel like I was going that fast until I hit the police car.\u00a0All things considered, they were pretty nice about it.<\/p>\n

I haven\u2019t driven since. Come to think of it, I haven\u2019t seen Marianne since. I hope she\u2019s feeling better.<\/p>\n

Brian Cullman is a writer and musician living in New York City.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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