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Engraved Invitation

Pssst. Hey, you. I need to talk to you. I think we should run away, you and I. Let's quietly gather our things, put that caller on hold, evade the boss and just sneak out the back door. Chances are no one will miss us. In case they do, we will have put out a note that says, "Gone Spelunking."

But we won't. We'll do this: we'll go home, and we'll put clean sheets on the bed, and we'll open the windows to let out the stale under-housekept air, and we'll turn off the TV and the stereo and the computer and the clocks, and we'll sleep just as long as we want to. When we wake up we will find that there is no need to do anything in particular, and so we won't. Maybe we'll read, maybe we'll make a pie and eat it, maybe we'll sit out on the patio and just turn our faces up toward the sun (the weather will of course be not too hot or cold, dry or wet). The most important thing is that we won'?t be acting in defiance of an internal voice that says "but you have to" anything; whatever we do, it will be free of the distraction that comes from a long list of other, allegedly more worthy, tasks.

Maybe we'll get sick of this serenity. Maybe we'll pack our bags and get in our car - our superbly old-fashioned but mysteriously safe and well-running car - and go on a road trip. We'll take an atlas and a guide to roadside attractions, but other than, of course, Graceland we won't have any destination in particular, or any end date for our travels. We'll just go.

Ideally, you won't mind driving. I'll put my right elbow out the window and you your left, and the pavement will unspool in front of us and behind us like all the road trips in all the movies. All of the music on our mix tapes will be entirely new to the other person, and just right.

We'll sleep in motels when we can afford to and in the car when we can't, and then we'll work for a day or two in a story-rich roadside tavern to make gas money to take us to the next place. We'll pack one fancy outfit each, so that we can bluff our way into hotel conventions and stuff our faces and our bags with free hors d'oeuvres and top-shelf liquor. We'll pretend to be neurologists and members of obscure social clubs, and say things like "I'm Meryl Patherington's niece--from the Cape! Don't you remember her?" No one will ever catch us. Or maybe someone will catch us, but we'll make our escape thanks to an unexpectedly sympathetic bartender.

Relieved of the constraints of expectation, we will be better people than we were. We'll have time to stop and help someone fix a tire, save their marriage, pull a fallen tree from the road, because we're on no schedule. We won't get all wound up about bad service or rudeness, because we are surely having a better day than the person who's let their manners lapse. We'll have the luxury to see every situation from another point of view. We'll listen to everyone's story because when you have no direction, you don't want to miss the cue for a new adventure. And we won't get bored because you and I will have learned the skill of finding charm in almost anything and letting the rest slide on by.

Let's. Just. Go. Are you ready? Are you coming? Did you bring your ballgown and your coolest sunglasses and your comfortable driving shoes?

Posted by hilatron at September 9, 2004 12:03 PM | TrackBack