It’s definitely Autumn here in the north county.
The last warm days finished out last Monday, in an all too brief flurry of 70 degree comfort. For the record, we got gypped. Indian Summer never really showed this fall except as a tease and then warmth came only in bits and spurts. The rest of the nation stole our last shot at a heat wave-taking what rightfully should have been our claim to warmth until at least mid-October.
Yes, we are a bit sore about that.
In keeping with that theme, I’ve also transitioned from having to be on the road at 4am eternal to not leaving the house (If I leave at all) until mid-morning. Although the head injury aftermath is still a big pain-at least I can drive again. That is thanks to the assistance of what now includes six pairs of very advanced and amazingly expensive glasses. Still the mobility feels good and I wouldn’t trade my current reality for the one I’d been enduring over the last two years. How long it will last is anyone’s guess.
Which brings me to the truest reality of living up here. In a word it’s all about the mobility baby. Everything we do, or I do, or anyone I know does, by necessity involves a drive. We aren’t talking a short hop in your car and you’re there drive either. No, this is true get thy ass behind the wheel, get yourself comfortable, and make sure you’ve used the rest room before you head out. It’s that sort of trek. It’s not so much “a drive” as a renewable commitment to the joyous act of filing a flight plan via a four wheeled, four wheel drive vehicle.
This is the very real trade off we weigh when living among scenic views, peace and quiet, Bambi, and a small number of neighbors. Unless one works in one of the few still operating lumber mills or for the feds, the standard commutes we embrace usually begin at a minimum of an hour each way. But I know of folks whose daily commute translates into two and even three hours spend behind the wheel. My current standard operating procedure comes in at about 140 miles round trip. Yet, in all that distance, I encounter only three stoplights. Some nights I can count the oncoming vehicles on one hand. The lone taillights ahead of me, or headlights behind me, don’t even register
In winter, the standard round trip could easily extend another 40 miles. Especially as this or that route gets shut down, mowed down, or blown down. Each inch or two of snow slows progress substantially. A three hour round trip becomes six, or seven or eight or worse results in not getting home altogether. There’s the standard issue wool blanket laying on the back seat, the stash of granola bars in the glove box, and never less than a half a tank of diesel-just in case God decides to afford one the opportunity to spend the night stranded somewhere between Post Falls, Spirit Lake, Furport, and nowhere. Welcome to my private Idaho’s reenactment of a Snow Globe.
My neverending quest to turn my windshield THX and IMAX recently incorporated the wonders Sirius Satellite Radio. Complete with dance channels, Howard Stern Channels, News Channels, and even a gay channel-the keeping up with the changing times, “OUTQ” radio.
For the first few weeks after I installed Sirius, I didn’t listen to OUTQ. Can you blame a guy who has 200 channels of the best kind of audio stimulation ever created, to initially pass on the gay channel? But eventually even I’d had too much of a good thing and needed a break from dance and trance and country western. When I finally tuned into OUTQ, I hit the big time, catching a Sunday night romance round up called Sunset Cruise.
I wasn’t expecting to hear Michael W. Smith singing Friends. Mark Weigle singing “The Truth Is”. And there were real live gay people calling in and dedicating songs to their significant others and best friends and ex’s. Although this wasn’t the land of the eternal Amy Grant hymn, it sure seemed a good, close, second best.
I am forty- uh- something years old. I have never dedicated a song to someone I love. Never on the radio. Never in person. In fact, I haven’t even enjoyed the company of a partner that likes to dance in over 20 years. Not since my first partner, which was way back when they were first transitioning away from the eight track. And yet right there, in front of my very ears, and on the Sabbath even, men were in the midst of dedicating love songs to one another. I heard songs from truckers to trucker. I listened as separated friends offered tunes to other distant friends. I heard Dykes with a tender spot confess their affection to lipstickers with eyeliner smudges. All of them seemed hell bent on joining in the mood. I’d discovered a very extended remix of We Are the Gay World.
As tune after tune lit up the night, I listened, admittedly befuddled by this strange turn of events. I wasn’t expecting any of this. A dedication show for same sex couples and their admirers? I mean who would have thunk? Could this be a rerun of the prom I never went to?
I kept checking the radio dial in disbelief. Driving deeper into the night, the lights of Spokane, then Coeur D’Alene, then Rathdrum faded. The mountains emerged, their contours shaped by the city lights now behind them. The stars joined their chorus. Traffic thinned, and then thinned again, until finally only one set of tail lights broke the night, miles ahead of me.
I had the craziest thought. I wanted to dedicate something to Kevin but I couldn’t think of a single song. I kept debating this. Should I call? Was it too late? Was the show nearly over? A DJ named Paul spoke between the songs and the dedications.
Maybe this was a sign. God wanted me to call. After all, this weekend marked our second anniversary.
The dj’s voice was encouraging. Go ahead. Call in. There’s still time. But would I have any cell reception? Once past Spirit Lake, the highway drops into a fifteen minute hole of no coverage.
I dialed.
I pushed send.
The phone shook in my hand.
I worried about wrecking.
God don’t let me sound like a dork. Please let it be busy. And then it was too late.
I was on my way to the ex trucker forever dorker haul of shame.
“Good Evening, What Can We Play for You Tonight on Sunset Cruise?”
I stumbled forward, feeling like I’d just asked my first guy ever to dance. I was sweating. My heart raced. This was so not very butch. Not at all alpha male.
“Could you play Love at the Five and Dime?” It’s by….
Oh my freaking God.
The artist’s name. Gone from my lips. The name of the singer had just vanished out of my mind. I could not even believe this was happening to me. How could I suddenly not remember the name of the performer? No way. Ding ding, hello. How could I be so lame? How does anyone forget the name of the very singer who sings one of their most very favorite songs? That’s like forgetting the name of your parents or Jesus or your sister.
I stumbled on. This is because basically I have no pride. I’m not smart enough to just hang up or throw the phone out the window at 65 mph. Oh no, not me. I kept on, ”It’s by the same artist who wrote songs for Suzy Bogus and I….”
Dorkdom. I was going to never live this down. Forever sentenced to the land of eternal ditz. DOH. And no, I couldn’t be content to just make an idiot out of myself on the local station. Oh no. I had to go for the big time. Let’s bomb on satellite radio, in front of an entire nation of fellow gay men and women. And don’t forget the entire frigging universe. Everyone would know. Even the aliens, in their spiffy UFO’s could hear me.
Then a worse thought hit. What if I blanked on my boyfriend’s name?
Kevin, Kevin Kevin-I kept repeating his name just in case.
Only an idiot could forget the name of a performer of a favorite song when calling a dedication line. Especially when that idiot had been to her concerts. And had every single album she’d ever made and knew every line of the song “Love at the Five and Dime”.
The DJ was considerate. Sympathetic even.
“I can find it by typing in the song title. It’s Love at the Five and Dime, right?”
“Yeah-I’m sure of that.” Which now I really wasn’t. Not anymore. Especially as some other equally wonderful song that I knew I knew- but the title I suddenly couldn’t remember, was playing in the background.
“If not, would you like another country song?”
Crap. It hit me like I’d just landed on a guest taping of Queer Eye for the Repressed Gay Guy. What was I thinking? Had I really just requested a country song on a gay radio program? Not a Bette M or a Barbara S or Whitney H song, but a real country song? I was so going to gay hell. A place completely devoid of trance, or dance or gay love songs. I was going straight to the land of eternal George Strait.
“And what’s your name?” It was the dj again.
“Tim”. There it was done. My fate was sealed.
“And is this going out to anyone special tonight?”
“Kevin!” I dang near shouted it. “I’d just like to thank him for the last two years and let him know I love him.” All my words blurred together. I sounded completely senseless.
The dj thanked me for calling. Then it was over. I instantly knew what it must feel like to be a hunter gatherer type and shoot yourself in the balls. On a national TV hunting show.
I prayed for a blackout to hit the program studios.
I looked at the cell phone. No reception. It was too late. I couldn’t call DJ Paul back. I couldn’t beg the DJ to please, please, please just erase the call.
Instead I turned down the radio dial. But I kept listening nevertheless.
I suspect this is because this is what humans must do. We have this sick fascination with seeing ourselves in all our not so glorious glory. Like giving last instructions on how we should look at our funeral or making sure that our driver’s license picture is good. Worse, even when we royally mess up, we humans are fascinated with seeing just how bad it really is.
So I admit it. I listened very hard. Even though the volume was pretty low.
The music ended and the dj came back on.
Overhead the stars twinkled and I emerged from a thick forested downgrade and entered a wide open meadow. Small banks of fog caught the light and seemed almost magical. A south-bound semi blinked his clearance lights to say hello, and then he was gone, already fading into the low slung fog covering the highway behind me. I lost sight of him in my mirrors and a five mile straight stretch loomed ahead. On every side, tall dark mountains became an oppressive horizon. Only occasionally would some lone light from a warm home or ranch or break through.
Then, there it was, my voice. “Oh gawd”, I groaned, sliding lower into the seat as the seatbelt touched my neck. As much as I wanted to turn the radio off I couldn’t. This was going to be like every single one of my worst dates. Awkward. Unfinished. Messy.
The dj spoke. I listened. Everything I heard was different. I sat up in my seat. The dj had edited the request. I sounded like I actually knew what I was talking about. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I could even hear a tinge of alpha male. Faint yes, but it was there just the same. Wouldn’t the dykes be jealous of that!
And then there she was, Kathy Mattea, singing for all she was worth. Breaking the night silence and educating the gay world all about Love at the Five and Dime.
He’d found the song. I am not even shitting you.
I couldn’t help but smile. Even as the highway opened up ahead of me and the Selkirk Crest came into view. The song played, it was just as sweet and wonderful as I’d remembered it.
I was shaking again. Beaming really. I realized I’d done it. I’d dedicated a song to Kevin. The universe had heard. Thanks for two years. And I love you from the middle of nowhere. Spoken into the middle of the universe courtesy of Sirius OutQ Radio.
Safe in the shelter of the Rockies, in a place kissed by the stars and caressed by slightest winds, the universe had heard. And she’d answered with this most amazing night on a most magical commute.
By request.
On a long after Sunset Cruise.
Yep-we still don't have a winner for either one of our little contests. And, O K people, what are you thinking? Of course the rodeo princess lives in a trailer! In fact that is all she's ever lived in. She's lived single, double and triple wided-And her ultimate dream? Well yes IT IS to live in a quadruple wide. With an upstairs.
