The car phantoms its way down the highway, headlights piercing through the blanket of black that lies ahead. Six hours to San Francisco. Bags packed. Snacks. A full car and a full tank of gas.
The road-trip playlist includes, among other things, a collection of David Bowie, "Rock & Roll All Night" by Kiss, and several samples of new music the band and I have been tinkering with recently. Feedback is positive but we cut the music talk short. No, "Have you seen this or that movie yet?" type talk, either. Road-trips are about comradery, and reminiscing. Laughing at ourselves just as much as at each other while swapping "Remember that time we -- " or "I can't believe I --" stories.
Within no time we reach the city and the Golden Gate, a truly marvelous sight in all the lights,where we're to meet a friend at a bar to celebrate his birthday.
Drinks are two-for-one so we decide to drink twice as much.
A group of girls join us in our booth just before last call. Another round of shots. Make it two.
Cheers. To birthdays! To road-trips! To making memories for future reminisce.
The next morning, my head pays for the discount drinks. We pull over and find a quiet park overlooking the bay. The sound of the waves crashing ashore, the breeze, whispering and green, sooth my headache. We stay a while, each of us sitting in silent contemplation trying to piece together the night before. Images of drinks sloshing. People dancing. Trips to the bathroom and laughing. Always laughing. We were happy -- but why?
And does it matter?
This snapshot of San Fran, the sense of companionship in a well-shared silence -- a fond memory of a memory I'll never really remember.
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