Driving At Night

When I was in my early twenties, my brother and I would from time to time climb into my dented Buick Regal and drive aimlessly around Providence for an hour or two joking and smoking. We only did so at night, when we’d grown sick of playing video games or staring at the four walls of our apartment. At least in the car the scenery changed, and I think it gave us the illusion we were doing something, though the circularity of our journey often nagged at me once we’d returned home. What were we doing with ourselves anyway? Where were we going?

At the same time, my friends Peter, Greg, and Dave spent the occasional summer night in search of East Bumblefuck, a name they’d invented for our state’s most end-of-the-map, middle-of-nowhere locale. They’d choose paths they’d never traveled, often graveled roads that wound lightless through damp, Rhode Island forests, and keep driving, hoping to lose themselves in rural obscurity. According Pete, one night the road they were on simply ended, and there were no houses, no landmarks, just that termination and more trees. They climbed out and looked around thought if this wasn’t East Bumblefuck, what was? They rejoiced.

It was best I wasn’t with them, as I wouldn’t have joined in on their celebration. It felt too much like what I feared life could be: meaningless trips in search of invented destinations. Of course, at that time, I hadn’t heard E. L. Doctorow’s famous quote about novel-writing being like driving by car at night; you can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. It’s a great analogy, though what he doesn’t mention is that you never know where you’re going, at least not specifically. You simply trust that at some point your lights will illuminate what you understand is home. You’ll know it when you see it.

Believing you’ll know what you’re looking for when you see it was not the kind of reassurance I craved in those days. After all, I’d sometimes claim I’d found what I was looking for only to realize soon after I was wrong, this wasn’t the relationship or the project I desired. Could I even I trust myself? Such are the questions you ask when you’re desperate to be somewhere, as if you aren’t already, as if the first sentence is as meaningful as the last.

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