They Won't Let [Us] / Drive Late At Night
They Won't Let [Us] / Drive Late At Night
I am lulled into car dancing by the sound of heavy guitar and Gwen Stefani telling me that being a girl is the hardest thing we’ll ever do. The car is going 80 down a 40 zone because no one dares to take the exit we do because the turns are harsh and the curb is just an inch too big and so we have the entire road to ourselves.
—did you ever believe in a leprechaun when you were younger?
—don’t tell me your mom fucking tricked you into thinking a little red-headed man was a March Santa.
—no, no. take that right, where that car just turned. i want sonic.
—so why do you ask?
—my mom told me about this PTO mom friend she has that laid out candy and rainbows and little green shoes every year but forgot this year and her kids--which, mind you, are like 8 and 6--freaked out so bad she took them out to get special toys.
I watch her giggle into the steering wheel, sunglasses slipping from her hair into her face. There is still residual hike sweat on her forehead, and I assume it’s also on mine. We are talking to each other but neither of us pays any attention; her eyes are on the road, mine on the wallet in my hands. I count the bills first, slowly. Thirteen in total: one ten, three ones. One is ripped and another has a phone number on it. I almost think about keeping it but move onto the coins. There are around four dollars but I give up counting after two. We pull into Sonic and she picks up our conversation again.
—some people should never have kids.
—i think the PTO is just the openest cult in the world.
— damn. turn this up, i need a little ‘just a girl’ in my life.
The song blasts from the car and we struggle to communicate underneath it. She tells me what we should get and I’m not sure, but pretty sure, she’s forgotten I don’t eat meat. When she presses the button to order I cut the song in half, leaving the car heavy in silence. The worker comes through the speaker, chewing gum with open lips and we both swear she looks like a model.
—hey! i’m erika. welcome to sonic, how can i help you?
— damn erika, you’re quiet. okay, uhm. actually, give us a second.
—what?
She rolls her eyes and I laugh into my sleeve. I want to play music again but don’t want to be known as an annoying customer. She calls it hereditary, from all the years my mom was a waitress. I start going through her glove compartment as she orders, moving around contact cases and napkins. I count everything-- six honey packets, four pieces of gum(two might be already chewed), three straws, and one stress ball banana.
—can i throw these out? they’re turning back to pollen at this point.
—what? oh. sure. i got those like a month ago.
—you got this car a week ago, dude. stop trying to be cool and flirt with erika. i’m literally right here.
I hear Erika laugh and know I’ve won for the night. She hits my shoulder and I throw each packet into the makeshift trash can in the backseat. I don’t tell her, but I rip a small portion of the wrapper off a straw and ready myself. She turns, and I blow. I’m certain the entire Sonic can hear her curse me out, as she grabs for the straw to hit me back with it. I am laughing and she is laughing and I think when Erika comes out with our food she is laughing too. She hands us our food and I promise myself I’ll eat an especially gross salad to make up for this.
Erika leaves and I turn the music back on. We are eating and singing and only then does the soreness hit. My legs buckle against the floor the car and I feel like I am going against gravity. I don’t say anything about it because the hike was her idea and I already feel bad about complaining and stopping us. But she notices anyway.
—you alright?
—i’m never going on a hike again.
—next weekend then?
I laugh but she doesn’t.
—are you not joking?
She bites into a corn dog and I shake my head.
—if you take me on another hike and get us lost for an extra mile again, legally, i can murder you. that’s like, 100% how it works.
—you’d miss me too much.
—i’d miss the car.
I’m hit with the empty stick of a corn dog and know I deserve it.
—i love you!
—why don’t you get out and walk home?
—you’re cruel. so cruel.
I go to open my door and she locks it. If I was anywhere but a Sonic parking lot with her, I’d be certain that I was going to get murdered. Instead, I laugh again. Gwen Stefani sighs into a song I’m not sure I know and we finish our food with small chatter.
I spend a good two minutes trying to fold the bag into a size that fits the trash can and it never works. She starts to drive off and the previously empty streets are busy.
—be careful of drunks. i have a test tomorrow i can’t miss.
The intersection is full of red cars and my stomach churns. I tell her about how red cars have a bigger likelihood of getting in car crashes and she backs into the curb to let them all pass. We slowly creep onto the road and we’re back going 80 in a 40 zone. She turns to me and asks me to turn Gwen back on and I’ve never turned down Gwen Stefani anytime before, so I do.
This piece is heavy into it's scene and location. I'm doing this process a bit backwards, as the idea for this piece came in a whirlwind of remembrance. I wrote this piece in one sitting, listening to Gwen [Stefani] and trying to figure out where everything seemed to sink in together and when we realized her words still stung today. "They Won't Let [Us] / Drive Late At Night" follows an experience I have yet to forget, a moment that lasted on my tongue and in my heart. The scene stands for itself, giving an atmospheric feel to what it means to be a teenager in a suburban area. Driving late at night and loathing in the angst of being a woman in this day and age, a friend of mine and myself spent the night chasing absolutely nothing. Our conversations were dull and hard to remember. It's a taste of what I feel it means to be a teenager, and how the world seems to mold around you. I feel that the form (not using quotation marks) gives the piece this unsettling feeling of distraction that we had as we were talking. It felt more as though the words had appeared, rather than us truly talking to each other. The relationship shown is bumpy and confusing, like most relationships I find myself in, as a teenager. It ends where it begins; the same sense of longing and yet simultaneous connection to the music and the message.
By Jude Ehmka