Drive in Silence

We’ve moved a couple of feet in the last five minutes. No matter what time I return home to Culver City, I can’t seem to escape the south bound 405 gridlock. I thought traffic would be northbound the Monday after Thanksgiving. People should be back at work and school, but I still see the Mall parking lots congested with anxious shoppers waiting for a spot to open. I hate to shop; sales cannot entice me to fight my way through the crowds. Black Friday lasts too many days. It’s Monday, three days later. My mind flits from scene to scene, between current and past realities, and then fast forwards to fantasies.

I recall an old friend who lives just off this exit I’m creeping past, Mulholland Drive. She married a wealthy man, became obese when they got pregnant; gained more weight than I did, which I thought was hard to do. He told her she was ugly and fat, then turned to other women. She’s stuck in her mini mansion with money, but no love.

I wish the traffic would move, yet I know it won't improve until all the holidays are over and we've rung in the New Year of 1986.

The woman in the car next to me talks on the phone, I can see the earphones she wears. When she turns her face in my direction, I entertain myself by practicing lip-reading skills I learned in my childhood. Her head turns away again and I lose sight of her words. Doesn’t matter, I’m not interested in her conversation, it’s just something to do while I sit frozen on this grey, bleak freeway. Practicing lip-reading can be entertaining. Sometimes I catch entire chunks of conversations, sometimes I miss everything.

At least I can enjoy the beautiful greenery at the top of this hill. In short order I’ll be between buildings and the green trees will be awash in my rear-view mirror.

A black Mercedes Benz inches forward on my left until it is abreast of my Honda Civic. I wonder what it would be like to drive a new fancy car. Would it be a smooth, calm ride? Would I notice the clunking of my tires as I rush around town like I do in my Honda? Sometimes I’m glad I can feel the roll of my tires, the hum or clank of my engine. Those motions let me know if I need to get my car checked. Sometimes I want to scream at the noise of the vibrations. Would I be less annoyed with a new car? I’ve depended on my sense of vibration since I can remember. Mom taught me, “Important feel.” She didn’t mean feelings of the heart.

Geez, why aren’t we moving?

The man in the Mercedes wears black sunglasses and faces forward, so I can’t see the words he is forming on his lips. I can tell he’s singing, not talking. Animated and bobbing his head, I surmise he’s listening to music in his car. I’m interested in his movements and how his shoulders move in a rhymical motion. His hands sway and occasionally he hits his steering wheel, bop, bop, bop. Maybe he’s listening to Christmas songs that hit the radio the minute Thanksgiving is over.

I’m certain music is entertaining. Most people I know, including my husband, switch on the radio as automatically as fastening their seat belts when they get in a car. Although I’m 36, I still have not developed the habit of listening to music. Mom, Dad, Aunt, Uncle, Stepfather, are Deaf. Mom refused to buy my sisters and me a radio. She always said in her Deaf voice, “Music stupid. Spend money that, no.” I learned early in life that an argument with Mom rarely saw success. My sisters were relentless in their arguments with her. Their force wore her down by the mid-1960s and she begrudgingly bought them the cheapest Philips radio she could find. They played that radio every moment they were in the apartment.

I never acclimated to ceaseless music. Not even to quell the time in this traffic jam. My years of living without background noise like music, comfort me.  Even the stagnant boredom of this drab and lined cement artery doesn’t encourage me to turn on the radio.

Just passed the Mulholland exit sign. I look at my watch and groan out loud when I realize I’ll be late to my son’s school meeting. If I hadn’t already passed Mulholland I might have exited and gone to my obese friend’s house to use the phone and call the school. Too late for that.

Besides, I don’t like to be around her husband. I want to yell at him for being so mean to his wife, cheating on her, and keeping her prisoner in their palace on the hill. I am fat, but my husband still tells me I’m beautiful. I admire his ability to be kind and loving when I know I look frumpy. His warmth encourages me to lose all the baby weight I put on with our last child. I’ve lost fifteen pounds. He’s patient. He believes in me. I wish I believed in me as much as he does. Thanksgiving advertisements remind me to be grateful. For him, I am.  

The car in front of me taps their brakes, red lights on then off, on then off. Like a rerun I watch without interest because I know the plot and we’re not moving, and I wonder if they think pressure on their brakes will provide movement. Annoyed now, my thoughts turn to annoyance at my mother.

I learned many bad habits from Mom. She didn’t show affection, didn’t give us support, and made it clear having three girls was a burden to her. Her life focused on going out with her Deaf friends to have fun. She loved to travel and never hesitated to leave us home alone when she took a one-week trip. Thanksgivings were spent with our dad, which made her happy.  She didn't teach me how to cook because she never cooked. Cooking is not my forte, still I make every effort to provide a family atmosphere of fun, love, and acceptance. We did okay this year with a dry turkey and some good laughs.

Sadness threatens to envelop me when I think about how Mom treated us girls. Absence at home was not her only vice. She didn’t make a presence at any of my life’s events, parent teacher meetings, PTA, holiday shows, graduations, or firsts of any type. My begging for her attention fell on cold ears. 

As soon as I think that, I realize I’ve never liked using the term, ‘fell on deaf ears.’ It is funny because I’m not certain what I mean by ‘cold’ ears. ‘Deaf ears’ is better, maybe I’ll start using that. It is a great pun.

My tires are rolling a bit faster. I’m passing Bel Air now and can see the sign for the exit to the 10 that will take me to Culver City. I might make it for that meeting. Not that I like school meetings. Just like to be present for my son. I want him to remember being in elementary school and seeing me sitting across from his teacher.

I imagine he might be stuck in traffic one day when he is an adult and muse about his life with fondness and love.