Pick up your car and go for a drive

Knowing you don't have much else on your agenda today is kind of freeing. You think about it, and you'd really just like to get in your car and drive somewhere. You don't really know where you're going to go, but you know that on a day like today it's going to be a good time. The sun is shining, the weather is warm, and a nice, long drive out of the city and down the winding, meandering country roads might be just what you need to fill the rest of the day and let you clear your mind.

As you get into the car and start the engine, you're not really sure what you're trying to clear your mind of, though. All things considered, aside from a fairly dull workday yesterday, you're in a pretty good mood. You definitely had a good time last night. You definitely had a pretty good morning. And, the rest of the day so far has certainly not been bad. There is the matter of that strange, recurring dream. It's a little weird that you keep having this dream in the first place, but having it two nights in a row now, and with the new feature of the mysterious city talking to you just pushes it to a whole other level. Regardless of what might be on your mind, though, you don't see any problems with just getting out of town for a while.

"This is Rock 'n' Roll Radio," the announcer on your car radio proclaims as you pull out of the parking lot. "Stay tuned for more rock and roll."

You find yourself bobbing your head to the beat of the music as you hit the road. It doesn't take you long until you've pulled onto the expressway and are headed out of town towards your destination, whatever that may be. A few songs and who knows how much distance later, you're well out of town, and you're tapping your fingers along with the drums of whatever old arena rock song is playing on the radio. It isn't anything you immediately recognize, but by the end of the second verse you are definitely feeling it.

You leave the freeway behind for a small, empty road to nowhere in particular at the first opportunity you get. Driving down a country road with the windows open and the volume up has always been something you enjoy. As you change lanes and pass a slower-moving driver, you reminisce about a time in your youth when your dad was first teaching you to drive. The old man always insisted that any drive worth taking needed the right musical accompaniment for the mood. If you were just out for a relaxing drive, put on something mellow: Bob Dylan was always a favorite of his. If you're trying to pump yourself up for something exciting at the end of the road, you need something upbeat: he'd opt for the Beatles or the Who. To your surprise, one time when you were on the way to some family event or other and running considerably behind schedule, he pulled out an old Slayer album. You grin at the memory. You'll never forget your mom's expression at that one.

You pass by a half-dozen or so small towns along the road, mostly little farming towns or the sort of preconstructed, cookie-cutter community that appeals to a certain type of upper-middle-class commuter. These are all places you've lived near for years, but you've never bothered to learn their names and probably never will. Then, up ahead you see the driveway for a small public park, one of those little roadside places with little more than a picnic table, an outhouse and a few parking spaces. The small, barely-noticeable sign at the entry proclaims it to be Randall Carter Park. On a whim you pull into the driveway and park your car.

You get out of the vehicle and stretch your legs. You must have been driving for a little bit over an hour, and you're quite a distance away from home. You look around the little park and decide you might have underestimated its charms. Not only does it have a picnic table and outhouse, but there are even a couple of trees, and a few bushes. You smirk with ironic humor that whoever this Randall Carter guy was, he must have been quite the local hero to have a such a fancy park named after him.

As you stand there appreciating what little scenery the park has to offer, another car pulls into the driveway. A pudgy, aging man and his bland, nondescript wife get out of the car, bringing a small cooler with them. You don't mean to eavesdrop, but you overhear them arguing about whether this was the best route to take today or whether the freeway would have been faster, and whether they should have brought more than ham sandwiches for dinner. They give you a polite-but-awkward wave when they realize they have been bickering loud enough for you to hear, then settle down at the solitary picnic table. You still catch bits of their conversation - the husband isn't impressed with the cleanliness of the picnic site and insists that back in his day people took care of places like this.

You decide you've had enough of the park and are about to drive off, leaving the couple to their sandwiches, when it dawns on you where you have heard of Randall Carter Park before. You recall a story your office mate Johan once told you that a few years ago, before he and his wife got married, they used to drive out to a park in the middle of nowhere and have really dirty sex on the picnic table or in the bushes. Apparently in the dizzy, frantic haze of a new, loving, and lustful relationship, his now-wife had a bit of an exhibitionist streak, and fucking in an empty rest area was their compromise between her wanting to be watched and his wanting privacy. If only that old man at the table knew just how dirty that picnic area might once have been...

Your stomach starts to rumble as you start to drive away, and you think it might be best if you head home for the evening. The drive back to town is uneventful, and you head home feeling fairly satisfied with your day.