Familiar Ghosts

The song was so familiar it was almost as if he had been there from the moment of its creation. The raspy, smoky voice created not only memories within his mind, but unequivocal emotion. Music could do that, you know. It could soothe the soul. It could stir up within you demons or angels, and tonight, it gave him the best of both worlds. 

The world was racing past him at 120 miles per hour down the dark highway. The beast he rode on was metal; his mother’s least favorite beast, to be exact. She had told him so many times before this night that he would kill himself behind the wheel and here he was, every object outside of his dusty window a blur.

Joe Cocker continued singing. His voice was as welcome as cool water on that hot desert night in July. Who knew that it would end up this way? He remembered hearing the song while he lay on the living room floor as a small child, his eyes closed while he listened. He could still feel the plush carpet under his head. He could smell mom’s meatloaf dinner on a Sunday night that was now cooling in the fridge once everyone had their fill. Her voice was thick in his ears telling him, gently because it was the first time, that he needed to take a bath and get his clothes ready for school. 

Why were these the memories that immediately came to mind when he heard this song? He’d had a plethora of memories attached with this music, from middle school and high school to college hijinks with the guys in the dorm. The song followed him throughout his life, an anchor to the world as he knows it now and the world as he knew it then. It was only fitting that tonight, of all nights, this song should come across the radio, it’s altogether melancholy and powerful vocals stirring within him everything he had tried not to feel for months now. 

He smelled the strong scent of marijuana while he smoked up with his best friends before his computer class in college, the five of them laughing and feeling high on not only the drugs, but the power of freedom attached to college life. He smelled sour stink of vodka and orange juice that he had mixed with heartbreak when he had his first real rejection all those many years ago. He could see himself in his mind’s eye, crying and drinking alone, singing to the words, getting by with the help of the only friends he’d had that night-- Vladamir and Minute Maid. 

Tears stung his eyes. The song was nearly over. The dust kicking up around the car created dense clouds, impossible to see through even with the powerful headlights of the Charger. Fear grappled him as he felt the car sliding on the dirt path, uncontrollable and heavy under his inexperienced hands. 

He had come to driving later in life, long after he had a career. He’d lived in a big city that afforded him plentiful bus stops and encouraged walking across the city. He didn’t see a need to drive (or pay for) a vehicle when he had so many other transportation options available to him. Then he moved out to the desert and suddenly everything was miles apart and he couldn’t walk to work in his business suits. 

The journey to getting his driver’s license was hefty, his older mind less willing to learn than his younger, but he finally did it. Mom was proud, but she was concerned. If only she could see him now, skidding through lane after lane of abandoned highway, the car lurching, destined to crash into a pole sooner or later. To completely miss would be imposs--

It happened. He crashed. Glass instantly coated the inside of his car, shattering over his hands and face. Instinctively he reached his hands up to protect himself, though most of the damage done to the vehicle was done to the backseat. He screamed and moved his hands to the wheel for the remainder of the crash, over in less time than it had started, but it felt like it lasted forever. His mind went in slow motion as he watched the beautiful car he’d paid so much for turn into a heap of smoking metal, pieces of it littering the highway behind him for miles. This is what he wanted though. This was the goal, to crash the car. 

The goal just wasn’t to survive. He didn’t want to live with the ghosts that he’d brought into the car with him when his journey began, but he didn’t have a choice. 

In the backseat a chorus of dead loved ones sang Joe Cocker and smiled. He’d survived, and in turn, they’d survived with him. He’d get by, all right… with a little help from his friends. 

End.