In the car, I played a former favorite CD that I thought had been ruined but miraculously wasn’t and actually only skipped like twice out of the whole 11 songs. That could possibly be one of the most refreshing surprises known to mankind. Or mekind anway.
It was Rob Thomas screaming wisdom at me through my speakers which have too much treble and not enough bass but are nonadjustable. And then he sang about death in his round about, poetic way, very softly and very reflectively, and I felt emotion stinging my eyes a little as I drove down the icy back streets.
Eventually, I reached my destination—a small Chinese restaurant in the middle of nowhere—and parked with my head resting on the steering wheel until the song ended. Inside the restaurant among the booths I made my face blank and dealt with being in public. In public I’m so boring I may as well not exist. I’m like the extra pair of tongs in the lo mein dish.
Meanwhile at home in my refrigerator, the supply Aquafina bottles mysteriously never dwindles no matter how much of it I drink. However, the Aquafina tastes suspiciously like tap water and doesn’t have the subtle acidity of added minerals, so I’m not fooled. It’s very characteristic of my mother to fill up name brand bottles with tap water. She puts Our Family colored O’s cereal into containers and pours the generic brand of orange juice into a pitcher and then in the morning she talks like we’re eating a breakfast of Fruit Loops and Tropicana.
Oh, and also this: I feel bad for the walkman. It’s being shoved to obsoleteness by the iPod. Why this saddens me so, I’m not sure. I’ve always sympathized with inanimate objects. Really. Ask Big Bertha’s favorite chair.