What a Fool Believes

September 26, 2004 | Category:

He came from somewhere back in her long ago
The sentimental fool don't see
Tryin' hard to recreate
What had yet to be created once in her life

I'm driving down the highway and it's late, singing along loudly and off-key to a compilation of songs meant to be played with the volume up and the bass on high.

The highways in Chicago turn into the Autobahn after midnight. We stream along at high speeds, blinkers flashing in the night as we slip from lane to lane.

New Yorkers take note: the turn indicators are usually activated from the left of the steering wheel.

Wondering. How many times did I make this trip in the Years Before? Racing home, a different home then, in the deepest part of the night. Belting out songs I know by heart. Minutes away from being asleep in my own bed. Crosswise. Alone.

But what a fool believes ... he sees
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems ... to be
Is always better than nothing
And nothing at all keeps sending him ...

Remember that cab driver? He was so beautiful. That accent. Those chocolate eyes. He was going to take me to Africa to meet his family. So sweet. Such a bad kisser.

Heading into the city, where I lived for so long. I miss living in the city. There's something about knowing you can get good Thai at 2AM.

I've driven into that skyline in the dark of all seasons. Wild hair, chapped lips, driving without shoes because they hurt too much after a night.

No, I can't stay.

I've got to be up early. For Church. For work. To visit a sick friend.

I have to get home.

She had a place in his life
He never made her think twice
As he rises to her apology
Anybody else would surely know
He's watching her go

I'm doing a crazy 8, switching from one expressway to the next. Cautiously merging into the lanes and then bringing the speed back. The windows cracked down to catch the cool air. The music louder over the wind.

What do these lyrics mean, anyway? Well, what can you expect from a band named after weed?

What was that guy's name? Dee would know, but she's asleep by now. She was drooping even as she hugged me goodbye.

The one who drove a station wagon while he was still single? He would make up the sofa bed for us because he'd bought his bed with his ex. We'd wear sweat pants and big t-shirts and he'd put on cartoons and plan elaborate weekend brunches. I kept expecting him to tell me he was gay.

What was his name?

The expressway is moving tonight. Fast, flying.

Bostonians, take note: Offsetting the on-ramps and off-ramps. It's a concept. Makes the whole right-lane more of a road and less of a parking lot.

I'm just saying.

But what a fool believes he sees ...
No wise man has the power to reason away
What seems ... to be
Is always better than nothing

He used to call over and over, that guy I met at work. It would be ringing as I was walking in the door. "What?!" I would demand, out of breath and irritated from fumbling the keys in the lock and diving for the phone.

My neighbor, he cracked to me one Saturday morning as we were in the garden - he said "You sure get a lot of late-night phone calls lately". He had a wicked smile. I mean the neighbor. That other guy, he didn't last the month. The neighbor I crushed on from across the hall for seven years.

That side job I did with the swing band. The backstage passes. There were the shows and then the after parties. 3AM at some amazing loft with preppily dressed men and women in short skirts. Plotting coffee runs and rendez-vous.

I'd escape alone. By the time my date was out of the bathroom, I'd be home. I would dive into my bed, still partly dressed. Raccoon eyes the next morning, too tired to wash off the mascara.

Dee used to ask me when I'd be ready. I'd put on the disengenuous, and ask: Ready for what? Some of us just like to sleep alone, I'd say with a shrug. Don't like sharing the blankets. Haven't met the guy worth sharing my blanket.

She'd say 'whatever'.

There's a stalled car in the breakdown lane. 3 guys huddled by the hood of the car. Each on a cell phone, with an eye on the road behind. The tow's coming, wonder if their ladies will wait.

I restart the song. It's good to have music that throbs the car.

Smooth exit up the ramp, left at the light. The moon is bright and full. The streetlights reflect that rock on my hand, hung around my finger in platinum.

Slower, darker, closing in. I'm smiling as I flick the indicator for a last turn.

That was then. This is now. Everything's different, I'm driving to him and not away.

I said yes.

I said yes.

I'm home.

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