ON THE ROAD WITH PERPETUAL MOTION
by Frank J. Albert
Colored map lines do not really lead us anywhere, but we believed that fantasy then. A road band tied to asphalt by Gibson strings, hot wax dreams, and gigs in the dark dives between Pittsburgh and Jersey. With the Ford wagon loaded until it groaned, I pointed east down Route 30 and we chased star trails again. The map became a paper hat. Cad wore it as he drove, blinking away smoke from cigarettes filtered through last night’s spotlight. The chords penned on my wrist had all but vanished in the sweat of our last set. I thumbed out the remnants. They were gone, a memory, like yesterday’s breakfast. Ahead, the sputtering neon of an all-night diner. Burgers and beer at 1:30, wolfed to save our bones and teeth from the knuckles of truckers. They wore grimy caps that said Mack. They ate five course breakfasts and left quarter tips. They begrudged us our youth and hated paper hats. Mike took the wheel. When his driving became a swerving horror show, even the Ford sighed with relief when we pulled over. I lay in the grass with Deb beside me counting stars. An August night so still we could hear the earth breathe. Her fingertips – calloused by the robin’s egg blue Fender 500 she seduced into song – played chords on my thigh that night, some I had never known before. There was nothing to believe but the aching lyrics of the songs we played, throbbing truth to a bass beat. Every song about us. We knew it. On the road. On the grass. We knew it. In the wake of shooting stars. And it was alright to sleep then because sunup would bring us a mile closer to something, or someone who could make us into something. We knew; we knew. We thought we knew. When we woke, I drove us into the waning moon, never to be heard from again.
Quarter Notes Magazine 