“Rosecrans. Yeah, I’ll take Rosecrans. Fuck Valley View. There’s no valley to see anyways.”
Technically, it was the fifth of July, three hours past Independence Day.
I suppose I spent the Fourth how a real American should, passing money-product/supply-demand fake “hellos” and automatic “thank-yous” time-and-a-half. That’s the dream, right? Driving home was the waking up, the part of the night where I celebrated. I popped in the “All gone to look for America” mix, the mix that got me from Denver to LA on a Greyhound bus in the dead of winter two years prior; the music that has seen as much America as I have. I perused the tracks, and basked in the revelry of why certain songs make me think of America, and why they make me feel American (I am). It was, well, pleasant, and what I thought would be nicely nostalgic for a Fourth of July–a great event to tell my friends about.
But then words cut through silence: “A long, long, time ago…” and my mind changed pace. I sat back in my seat and sank down into my soul. As Don McLean unfolded (perhaps unraveled) in front of me, I had the strange suspicion that I’d been there before; that I had seen highways mix these words before. I imagined (it felt slightly more than imagination) my father doing this very same thing, driving down a loaded gun freeway at 21, singing the not yet overplayed lyrics, “bye, bye, Miss American pie…” as loud as his vocal cords would allow. I imagined him confused about himself, and America, and the relationship between the two, and only being sure of one thing that night in 1976–that there was no way in hell he wanted to drive that Iowa dirt road home that night. So he took the longer route.
I took the longer route as well, because there was no way in hell I was getting off at Valley View.
I continued north on the 5 freeway, singing, screaming as loud as I could, as on pitch as I could. Tears welled up in my eyes, as America poured out, or rather, narrated her identity crisis through me. I want to say it was spiritual, but it wasn’t quite that. I think it was patriotic, in the most intense and heartbreaking sense of the word. Yes, the music died. And so I wondered what else is dead or dying, and if I could somehow be so caught up in it that I don’t even see it. Maybe I’m dying and America’s killing me. Maybe I’m killing America. Maybe it’s double homicide and something outside us is killing us both.
But the song ended before the investigation began, and I got off at Rosecrans. The wells in my eyes went dry and my father turned back into my dad. I piddled between stoplights and dodged street lamp spotlights and it suddenly became strikingly apparent that it was now the fifth of July.
