It's a Loud Car Ride From Colorado

It’s a loud car ride from Colorado to California. At 19, my daughter, Mo, owns many communication gadgets. She has a cell phone. I hate them. Her cell phone plays several songs--a signal to her about the caller. Ringing now, it blares out “Purple Haze”. That’s her dad’s signal. Jimmy Hendricks is rolling in his grave. She tells me that my signal is a Joni Mitchell song, but she is not sure of the title. I know that her boyfriend’s signal is an Usher song--something with the word “baby in it. She usually clicks the talk button before Usher can utter more than two words.

Placed thoughtfully next to the gear shift, her ipod frantically spews carefully selected traveling tunes meant to keep us awake. Bumping bass, lusty lyrics. I can’t sing along. All of our car windows are down. Hot Utah wind muffles her phone conversation. Our trip is getting louder.

Outside the car, short trucks, long trucks, refrigerated trucks, and fuel tankers orchestrate a symphony of zinging rocks and clanking chains. But there’s a new roar joining the chorus. In the “slower traffic keep right” lane, a series of three long silver trucks have been hooked together like railroad cars. The conductor in the first truck hauls the load cross country, minus the tracks, minus the clackety rails, minus the crossing guards. It’s a short train, rumbling on the white dashes next to me. Mo is not bothered. She can nod her head to the beat of the music, swivel to watch the mini-train and chat with her dad on a phone the size of a used bar of soap.

We are still passing he Zephyr when I notice a big black Escalade in my rearview mirror. Where did that come from? How could something as big as a zambone sneak up on me? The man behind the wheel is glaring, focusing on the back of my head, concentrating on keeping up his speed. I am in his way. This is why railroad tracks don’t have a passing lane. His eyes are slits that reflect off my mirror. A ray of burning frustration. Sweat breaks out on my nose. My sunglasses slide down until they are of no use to me. My chatty passenger flips the phone my way. “It’s dad”, I see her mouth say.

“I can’t talk”, I yell, “I’m trying to keep this car on the road. I AM TRYING TO DRIVE!”. She stares at me, just waiting, the phone antennae pointing at me like a witch’s silver finger. I take it. “What?”, I yell, “I can’t hear anything you are saying”. Now, I’m screaming into the tiny mouth piece. “I can’t talk now. I AM TRYING TO DRIVE”. My voice jumps back at me through the lumpy ear piece. We finally chug past the second car of the linked rigs on the right. The looming beast on my bumper swerves to the left. Is he going to pass me on the divider? “Her, take it”, I shout, one hand gripping the wheel, one hand bumping her arm with the phone.

My daughter is disgusted with me. “I don’t know why she’s yelling”, she tells her dad. “I think she’s going deaf”.