(March 22, 2003)
I sat in the backseat of an old, beat-up, blue Mustang. The paint was peeling off, making it nearly impossible to tell it was blue, but I somehow knew that it was. It was blue like the sky. It used to smell like leather. Just like a new pair of shoes. It could have been a classic car, but it wasn’t. It was used.
I wiped my eyes and sighed, scratching the scruff on my chin. I needed a shave. Badly. I hadn’t had one in so long. I stretched my arms above my head and took in a deep breath. The backseat was worn out and if I just laid on it for the rest of the day, I’d have nothing good to sleep on.
I crawled up to the front seat, digging my nails into the material of the steering wheel, getting a feel of what I missed. I reached to turn on the radio and it flickered on, giving me a quick sound of a song, but it cut off. This was a hard life to live, but it was even harder to go back and live the life I used to lead.
I couldn’t do that. That was why I ran away. Sure I still loved music, but I couldn’t keep up with everyone bitching at me to do this, sing this, wear this. Music was supposed to be a passion, not a dictatorship. I looked at myself in the cracked rearview mirror. The radio stayed on a little longer this time. I got a whole chorus out of a country song.
May I could become a country artist. Change my name and go back. Maybe then I could get the respect I deserved. People did it all the time. Or maybe I should just leave forever. I could get all the way to Vegas in the Mustang. I could start all over. I wouldn’t have to sing anymore. I could live in a hotel and fall in and out of love as many times as I wanted. Maybe I could win her back.
I sighed even more heavily than the previous sighs and watched the wind blow grains of sand into my window. It was a beautiful sights. And suddenly, I felt sorry for them. More of an understanding rather than pity, mind you. They couldn’t do whatever they liked. If they wanted to stay or wanted to go, they couldn’t. The wind told them exactly what to do. I understood exactly what they were feeling.
It was dead silent where I was sitting. A red convertible, probably a Mustang too, sped on the abandoned freeway. I wanted so badly to be that person. I wanted to drive with the top down, wind whipping against my face. I wanted to be free of the restraints that had been holding me back for the past eight years.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I leaned onto the passenger seat and rummaged through the glove compartment looking for the keys. I closed my eyes in defeat as I realized that they weren’t there. The sun started to move, making me squint as it played with my window. I could feel my skin start to burn. I reached for the visor and told myself that I would go back. I had to. I had to do it for my fans. I had to do it for myself. But most of all, I had to go back in order to get her back.
I pulled it down as my head pressed against the headrest. There was a jingle as an object hit my leg. I opened my eyes and looked at the small key in my hand. Was this a sign? I ran my fingers across my face and studied it well. I didn’t believe in serendipity or fate, but maybe, just maybe…
I jammed the key in the ignition and heard the engine give a small sputter as I warmed it up. I patted the dashboard and nodded. This was the real thing. No one else would care for me. No one else put me first. If they wanted me back so damn badly, they would have started searching for me. But no. Now it was my turn to go searching. I grinned and grabbed the clutch.
“Here I come Vegas.”
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