I Find Myself Behind the Wheel of a Mid-Sized Automobile
by Paul Ruta
I’m on a solo road trip, heading west. My wife’s giving me a head start, then she’ll fly to San Francisco to begin the next chapter in her career. We’ll meet there. The trunk’s packed with important papers, computers, a guitar, and other stuff you don’t put on an airplane. Toronto’s been great, but now with the kids grown and gone it’s time for a new adventure, one without a windchill factor.
I have a glorious week to myself, nestled in the cockpit of a little road rocket with my prescription sunglasses, driving gloves, and envelope of US cash. I feel like an astronaut and no, Elton, it’s not lonely out in space. It’s exhilarating. I’m sociable enough when necessary, but I’m also fine with being alone. And in all my decades roaming this big blue planet I’ve never spent a millisecond feeling lonely. I’m not sure I even understand the concept.
The car is a manual-transmission Audi A4 Quattro. Black, of course, and it handles like stink. You’ll get owned on straightaways, but Mustangs will eat your dust when the road gets twisty. She’s 16 years old — geriatric in car years, but this fine old Frau has already got me this far without the slightest cough or needing a nap. She takes me to diners for grilled Kraft-slice sandwiches and piss-water coffee, then to motels with stain-resistant bed spreads and cornflake-breakfasts in styrofoam bowls. In return, I make sure her belly stays full of high-octane gasoline, her fluids are topped up, and her tires are at optimum pressure. And with each westward mile, her Ontario license plates become more and more exotic.
I pull over at the scenic outlook shortly after the sign: WELCOME TO UTAH – LIFE ELEVATED. I get out of the car for a lungful of October air and take in the panoramic landscape. If there’s one state that lives up to its billing, it’s Utah. There’s a postcard view in every direction — and that’s before you even get to the really scenic parts. If Utah ever decides to redo their sign, may I humbly propose: WELCOME TO UTAH – EXACTLY LIKE THE FUCKING BROCHURE.
The other reason to pull over is to change the music. At the outset of this trip I decided to listen to nothing but a single artist in each state. Not to match landscapes with complementary music. On the contrary, I’m conducting a totally scientific neurological experiment. I’m curious to see if it’s possible to burn new mnemonic connections into my brain by playing deeply familiar music over and over in new and unrelated contexts. And so I listened to nothing but Elvis Costello in Colorado, James Brown in Nebraska, The Cure in Iowa, and so on. The effect has been that whenever I hear Get up, get on up these days, I’m instantly transported to a rest area off the I-80 where there’s a dinosaur statue in a sandbox and the toilets don’t friggin’ work.
Utah needs something very non-Utahan. Which you could argue is pretty much everything except Marie Osmond and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
I flip through the pages of my party-size CD wallet — it’s the main occupant of the passenger seat and is so heavy I have to fasten the seatbelt to keep the bell from dinging. What’ll it be? Stones? Lucinda? John Prine? Naw, too earthy, too rootsy. I want something far less appropriate, something urban, quirky, sophisticated. Steely Dan? Prince? Wait — ahh, here we go.
Talking Heads.
Utah’s a typically boxy western state, nearly 300 miles across as the crow flies, so it takes a musical artist with a strong catalog to go the distance. I decide to play the first four Talking Heads CDs in order, then repeat as necessary. It occurs to me that no other band I know has made such meteoric artistic progress in their first four albums. TALKING HEADS – AMERICA’S POST-PUNK BEATLES, since I’m in the mood for unsolicited slogans.
And they’re perfect for Planet Utah. For the next few hours I drive past endlessly unfolding landscapes of mountains, deserts, canyons, and bizarre rock formations in stripy alien colors. At total odds with what I see out the windshield, singer David Byrne tells me not to worry about the government, that the girls just want to be with the girls, that heaven is a place where nothing ever happens, and that one day I may find myself living in a shotgun shack.
Overhead, in the big sky, big birds continue arcing through the air on their solitary journeys. Their random movements appear like expressions of freedom. But they are slaves to instinct, their primitive brains issuing strict commands. I, at least, can drive wherever I want and play whatever the hell music I want. Or so I believe.
Evening comes early this time of year and the sunsets are blinding. I turn off the interstate and find a motel. In the morning, after cornflakes and a cup of coffee-colored warm water, I follow Highway 50 to the Nevada border. This is the official start of the fabled Loneliest Road in America. Sounds exactly like my kind of place.
I pull over and unzip my CD wallet.
What shall it be?
Oh, of course. XTC.
Why? Because they’re just making plans for Nigel. They only want what’s best for him. And isn’t doing our best what everybody wants?
I get back on the highway and aim the car at California.
Paul Ruta writes about music, travel, advertising, and some fiction. Written under the pen name Andy Spearman, his children’s book Barry, Boyhound, was published by Knopf. He's from Niagara Falls and has lived in Toronto, London, Singapore, San Francisco — and now Hong Kong, with his wife and three guitars. paulthomasruta.com
