How Much Can You Take

A few weeks ago, Julie and I were taking tree limbs to the city drop off point. We had the windows rolled down as the stereo played a mix of stuff on our iTunes. Every now and then a song pops up that is obviously from Julie’s playlist. Some of these, I listen to for awhile. Songs like “Paint Me a Birmingham” will last a few lines, but some get an immediate push of the “fast forward” button.

As we pulled up to the check-in station, our truck was approached by a city worker who was obviously very comfortable working outside. His hands were rough and he looked cool despite the perspiration soaking his work shirt. As the stereo moved to a selection by Christina Aguilera / Britney Spears / Aqua Force, I turned it down. I told her, “I cannot look this man in the eyes if that is coming out of the speakers.” To do so would be a metaphoric limp handshake.

With that in mind, Julie turned the tables on me during the trip back. On the return trip, we were driving on the freeway, minus our tree limbs. We had the sound up pretty high since the windows were down. Exiting onto the access road, we pulled up to a family sedan. She lowered the volume so as not to disturb them. I understand that she didn’t want to come off the same way that lowriders, highriders, or angry teens do. However, at the time, we were listening to Romantica. I don’t think Ben Kyle has anything in common with Trick Daddy, and I challenge anyone to find anything intimidating about Control Alt-Country Delete.

It reminded me of a car ride in San Antonio many years ago. After attending some festival that involved eating different types of sausage and Scotch eggs, my party was caught in traffic. Sitting in the passenger seat was my friend Jeff. His girlfriend was driving. I was sitting in the back with Jeff’s friend Ray. Though I was not driving, I was the only person in the car who hadn’t been drinking.

This full sized car pulls up next to us, and the driver is clearly checking out Jeff’s girlfriend. He cranks his stereo which is playing some M.C. A.D.E ultra-bass remix. We have to raise our voices to hear each other. The subwoofer kicks in, and every bass kick shakes our tiny car. Jeff leans out of his window. “You want to bump with us? We’re listening to Elton John, ---hole!”

The guy says something back to Jeff who reaches for the center console. “Turn this mother______ up!” As a result, whenever I hear “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me,” I imagine it at 140 decibels with nothing but tinny treble coming from factory Kenwoods. At some point, Jeff is banging his head to the downbeat, fist pumping in 4 4 time.

I wonder if I could have done that to “National Side.”