On Life as a Sarcastic Fringehead

Lots of phone calls and mental interruptions today. Also, I've changed from Maroon 5 back to Morcheeba. I tried Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell yesterday and that was a disaster. Not sure why. I just couldn't write to it.

Parker is one of those people who thinks silence in a conversation is a sign of personal weakness, but, three hours in, she’s been unusually quiet while driving, and I haven’t said much to her to change that. We stop at a convenience store for peeing and fueling and walking Ferocious B, and I volunteer to drive for the next couple of hours. She tosses me the keys, I get in behind the wheel and say something like this: so how do you start this thing?

She looks at me. Twice, I think. And supports her head in a hand with an elbow digging into her thigh. Again with the half amused, half are you kidding me eyebrow trick: “Do you know how to drive, Stillwater?”

“I’ve seen it done.”

“Before today?”

Maybe. Because who really knows?

Locking her seatbelt, twice, I think, the lesson begins. The road is hilly, but there are no major curves and, unless you count the parade of cars passing me on the left, we have the two-lane highway to ourselves. I can’t lie and say I took over the trip and let Parker sleep the rest of the way, but I did get us to Oklahoma. Better truth: I kept us pointed toward Oklahoma and didn’t get us lost or turned around. I hit nothing on the way. Our next stop, Parker asks for the keys.