Small Town

The car is listed as “compact” on the rental agreement but could only meet such a description if all the other cars were especially large tanks. I have to assume that they are using this new model as a gateway drug to hook renters on more spacious (read: expensive) models in the future. Its size takes away some of the force of my blinding speed as I careen through the curves of the backroad that until a few years ago didn’t even have center lines marked. The sides of the road are still undefined, up for grabs, fading off into light grass in the summer, now into black ice and then underbrush which obscures the treacherous ditches that lie at the edge of the forest proper.

It occurs to me that I am driving 25 mph above the posted 35 mph speedlimit for no good reason. I drive 60 on this road because my parents always drove 60, sometimes more, on this road and, apparently, I will not be outdone. I drive 60 because there is something about this place, this region, this town, this forest, this road, that makes me panic and want to leave it quickly, pass through it rapidly, leave no pause for it to re-introduce itself, for it to get a toehold in a conversation. If I move quickly enough, at most, I will only have to yell a fading, “Hello to you too!” over my shoulder should it greet me, attempt to waylay me with lazy, dangerous conversation.