By Max Tachis 

“It’s just about midnight on this cloudy Friday night, folks, so I’ll be signing off after this next track and passing the wheels of steel to my friend and yours, DJ Kenny T, for your Midnight Mix… but I leave you, as always, with one last classic. Be well, my loyal night owls, and I’ll catch you on the other side of the weekend.”

* * *

It takes you about five seconds to recognize the song but, considering how well you know it, you’d have been able to do it in two had you not been distracted by the license plate of the beat up old truck in front of you. Who on Earth consciously pays for the privilege of being identified as MRBUTT ?

You reach for the radio dial on instinct, unaware you’ve even done it until that infamous opening riff freezes your hand in the dashboard light. It’s been years since you’ve heard it, though how many you try not to define. To remember when - exactly when - would be all too easy. For your mind and your memories, at least. Easy for your heart? A different story entirely. To think about the song much longer would be to acknowledge you’ve been consciously avoiding it all this time rather than believing the marvelous coincidence that you’ve somehow dodged one of the most famous, most overplayed songs of the last fifty years. You’d have to admit that it wasn’t just this one song, but the artist herself you’ve purged from the playlist of your life. If you let it play much longer… if this song washes over you for the first time in - don’t pretend you don’t know it - thirteen years… you’d have to be ready for it to ruin your night. To say nothing of your life.

Leaning back in the driver’s seat, leaving the radio dial alone, you decide that you are.

* * *

Armand had once shared a flight with you, though neither of you knew it because you were eight months old and he was blackout drunk. He often was in those days, when this song was by no means new but certainly wasn’t old. Now it was, though. Very old, and this realization, along with the loudly throbbing joints in his hands, was a not-so-polite reminder that he was, too.

He wasn’t mournful for the music, though. He was grateful. Armand had worked at the MovieTown USA theme park since the day it opened, longer than anyone in the history of the company, so he could be trusted to know things that most others just didn’t have the experience to know: Where the best hot dog was (Ball Park Frank’s cart behind the log flume); where the best bathroom was (also behind the log flume); and, most importantly, whether or not MovieTown USA was extremely haunted (it was). Armand assumed that he’d been around long enough to get a pass in good faith from any pestering poltergeists, but it was still a comfort to have his portable radio nearby to manage the creeping anxiety that came with the eerie silence of post-closing ride maintenance. Especially now that it was taking him longer and longer.

He took a break, sitting (thumping) back against the struts of the ride at hand. The Berzerker was an old Bayern Kurve, pushing the same little train around its short little track over and over and over since Armand helped install the damned thing himself, and it wasn’t until the first verse drifted out of the radio that Armand realized what song he was listening to. He’d not only heard it before, but he’d heard it piping out of that same little radio, sitting in that same exact spot, fixing that same ride late one night some twenty-or-so years ago.

Nothing monumental had happened that night. Far from it. The Bezerker was in constant need of maintenance. Armand ended up underneath the track checking on drive units and slip rings about as often as he’d swipe a leftover funnel cake from the food court after closing (which was, to his shame, damn-near every night back then). What gave Armand such pause around the song was that lucid moments and clear memories from back then, before he’d put the bottle down for good, were few and far between. But this one was coming in as sharp as the night it happened. In that brief moment of music he’d unearthed an ancient treasure: A true, honest, and simple memory from a time when the majority of such things were blurry at best, lost to an angrier and more bitter man.

He closed his eyes and put a hand on a nearby rail, replaced as many years ago as Armand’s left hip, and for the first time truly admired how far he’d come. Not literally, of course, because he was within an inch of the same physical location as before. But he’d kept this crusty, classic ride from closure season after season, and he hadn’t touched a drink in just as long. He’d never make up for the years he pissed away, something he’d come to accept, but there were almost two decades of strong memories now. They weren’t always good or happy or profound, but most of them were as clear and vivid as an old song dancing across the airwaves on a late autumn breeze, and that was something to celebrate.

Armand lurched back up onto his haunches with the elderly groan he’d earned for time served, thanked the Berzerker for being the longest successful relationship he’d ever had, promised to have the beast up and running by morning, and chuckled to himself while that old familiar chorus started.

If this wasn’t time travel, he didn’t know what was.

* * *

You no longer feel the pressure of the pedals under your feet because they’re floating limply in a swimming pool.

You are keeping the pressure on, though.

Just to ease any anxiety that may have caused you.

You’re a responsible driver, you’ve just slipped into an old memory - the one you knew was coming - and the cool water comes almost up to your knees. It’s just as refreshing as you expected when you chose to dangle your legs in rather than swim. Not that you didn’t want to swim. You brought your swimsuit and you’d come over on the expectation that you would. But to swim would mean to change and to put on sunscreen and to eventually towel off and to change back into dry clothes, and all of these would’ve been obstacles to your ability to leave quickly and without fuss.

Because you broke up with him that summer afternoon by the pool. As planned.

And your escape was swift. As planned.

And now you find yourself sitting in two cars, thirteen years apart, listening to the same song, but you’re wondering what might’ve happened had you not driven away the first time. It was a simple choice then. It didn’t come from any malice or hurt. In fact, quite the opposite. It was to avoid hurt, and resentment, and bitterness and mistrust and paranoia and all the things you’d assumed, at eighteen, would inevitably come with a long-distance college relationship. But you were still sitting in that car by the time the chorus ended. Why? You’ve never had an answer, or stopped asking years ago for fear of what that answer may be. Were you having second thoughts? Were you hoping to be chased? Or were you just unsure which direction the airport was - You did nearly miss that flight to Boston. This time, though… you realize you’re missing that flight altogether. The next verse is almost here and so is your chance to fix all this! You left last time. But now… or then? The line is blurry and so are your eyes but one thing is clear.

You don’t drive away.

You get out of the car and run back to the house and into something new. That day is clear, sunny, and perfect; one where a light drizzle hasn’t just started, so while you spin off into another life your right index finger takes the responsible initiative and flicks on the windshield wipers in this one.

* * *

Annika did not recognize the song.

Annika had never heard the song.

Annika did not care about the song one bit.

What Annika cared about was her father’s twenty year-old Nissan Altima, its flat tire, the AAA guy telling her his best estimate for roadside assistance was over two hours so she’d be better off changing the tire herself, and the fact that she didn’t have any idea how to do that. She also cared that Charlie, who was the hilarious, loud oddity she’d always known him to be fifteen minutes ago, was now leaning against the car looking gloomy and down on himself because of, Annika assumed, some internalized machismo idea that he should know how to change the tire. But he didn’t, and it’s not anything she blamed him for. Nobody knew! She’d heard that ‘autoshop’ was apparently taught in high schools across the country in some bygone age, but that period of time may as well have been in their history books with the other ancient myths. Who was responsible for teaching them these things anymore?

Now Annika was mad about generational neglect, which was usually great fuel to get through the day but was not particularly productive at that moment. And then, of course - OF COURSE - there was the rain. The very same stupid rain the stupid app on Annika’s stupid phone promised her would not happen tonight that made all of her stupid obstacles even harder. This was officially the worst first date in history.

She paused before the final lugnut and looked at Charlie. He welcomed her with a half-smile and put his hood up, trying to do it with one hand to make it look like he wasn’t concerned about the rain, but he ended up getting the the hood caught on one ear and had to wiggle his head back and forth in that weird way that

A. Never works, and-

B. Puts your face halfway into the hood.

Charlie was not smooth, but he was so fun and so weird and, at seventeen, that was Annika’s whole deal.

She was weird, too, but in an anxious way that, for example, put her crush out in the rain while she attempted to change the tire instead of inside the dry car due to some vague advice she half-remembered about it being dangerous for any weight to shift while the vehicle was up on its wobbly little jack. Annika had no way of knowing if that was a real thing - Or, rather, she had no way of knowing while maintaining the illusion that she didn’t need any help. Knowing could be

achieved almost instantly via a phone call with her dad or a cursory search on YouTube, but she didn’t want to use up what little phone battery she had until it was a real real emergency because there was no phone charger in her father’s ancient car. Which was also why this ancient song was playing over his ancient radio and gurgling out of his ancient speakers because Charlie, who always had really cool music on his phone, got in the car when Annika picked him up and the first thing he said was, “Do you have a charger? My phone is dead.” So there they were, in the rain, him stuck watching her because he didn’t have a phone to distract him, and her stuck with a stubborn determination to get herself out of this mess.

At least the song wasn’t all bad.

It was the kind of old, whimsical stuff her parents listened to. Too soft for Annika’s liking, but the singer’s voice was rich and the rhythm was catchy. Even soothing. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing since she’d asked Charlie out during lunch three days prior, and now… Okay. The song was nice.

Annika maybe even liked it.

A little.

“Sweet moves,” Charlie said with a chuckle. Moves?

Annika realized she’d been kicking the tire iron to the beat of the song without knowing it. BUM-BUM-BUM-BUM. Wet, cold, a little embarrassed, and now with a right calf that was sure to be sore in the morning, Annika still found herself smiling. She was frustrated and no closer to a solution, but this was something resembling fun under these comically unfortunate circumstances, and that was enough to produce one very last drop of confidence from her emergency reserves.

“Wanna dance?” she blurted out. The words hung in the air getting soaked and soggy, just long enough for Annika to regret letting them fly, until Charlie - Dear, sweet, wackadoo Charlie - leapt to the challenge as if he’d been waiting for that exact question all night. They were side-by-side

BUMBUM-BUMBUM-

-stomping the tire iron in double-time with the song

BUMBUM-BUMBUM-

-not dancing, exactly, but it was still a lot of fun and the lug nut finally gave

BUMBUM-BUMBUM-

-and suddenly they were falling forward, arm in arm, slipping and sliding in a futile attempt to not fall into the mud. The two of them, flat on their backs, were victorious. And wet.

And filthy.

And laughing.

And kissing?

Annika wasn’t sure how, but she knew she’d started it. There was still a whole tire to replace, and they’d certainly missed their concert, but it was her first kiss and, for the space of a chorus on the radio, there was nothing to do but revel in it.

She would remember this song for the rest of her life.

* * *

After the second chorus comes the bridge of the track, which is regarded as one of the best examples of song construction in the long-forgotten artform of the Soft-Rock Ballad. It is considered en masse as the most powerful part of the song - The part that, if one was willing to be moved, should reduce one to tears. One review at the time of the single’s release said, “It is somehow both beautifully tender and ferociously aggressive, like seeing your cat purring on the couch cushion next you transform into a hungry lion and roar in your face, before melting back into your sweet tabby once again.” Most music historians agree the singer never achieved this level of artistry again in her entire career.

And also that she didn’t need to.

These were eight bars of gentle perfection.

But Bosley, nestled in her little corner of the garage while said bars played under an orchestra of automotive tools and human cursing, didn’t know or appreciate any of this because she was a box turtle.

And, frankly, she preferred pop-punk.

* * *

By the time the bridge ended and the final verse started, Ritchie was crying in hysterics. For his entire life he’d been convinced that the lyrics were, “Solar is turning better, man”. While some people heard, “So long, return a better man” - Which Ritchie could admit sounded almost right - he knew the truth and defended it mightily. The song was so grandiose, sometimes so mythical in its storytelling, that this woman had no choice but to leverage imagery of the sun itself to fully express how she feels about her lover and the ways in which he has a new chance, every day - With every turn of the sun - to treat her better. It’s a song about hope in other people. It’s a song about forgiveness. Of this, Ritchie was certain.

At least until a minute prior when he really heard that “ng” sound in “long”. He cranked up the volume to be sure over the sound of the highway:

“So long,” came the chorus once again, “return a better man.”

Oh, shit.

He’d been wrong.

He owed so many people so much money.

In high school, Ritchie had been so sure of his golden ear that he’d put real, teenage money on those lyrics. The sum total of four months of allowance! Sure, it was allowance fifteen years ago, which makes kids today look like Wall Street moguls, but it was a whole lot of money then! Of course, none of his friends - The ones he still kept up with, at least - would ever collect. Most wouldn’t even remember.

Except for one, and Ritchie couldn’t wait to tell Don he’d been right all along.

He wiped his eyes and reached over to the tattered passenger seat where he’d dumped his phone, and stifled his laughter long enough to to call his oldest friend when he remembered that he couldn’t.

Don was dead.

Just about four years on.

Ritchie held the phone a second longer, keeping the rising grief at bay with the rapidly fading warmth of a world where he could still call his friend, then tossed it back on the seat. Where the sadness used to spiral, it had been long enough now that Ritchie could be grateful for the times he forgot his friend was gone. Those little flashes where he feels like Don is a phone call away were always joyful, always bright, and reminded him of his friend’s lasting legacy: The stupid adolescent stubbornness over song lyrics, an insatiable need to see every Jane Austen adaptation that hit the movie theater, pranking each other with embarrassing vanity license plates - Perhaps the only reason Ritchie hadn’t sold the lemon of a truck he’d been driving since sophomore year. Ritchie’d worked hard on his grief, and a litany of other issues that grief had exacerbated, and was unexpectedly proud he could be comfortable with it. So long. Return a better man, indeed.

Ritchie's eye caught the flickering neon sign for a big burger chain off the next freeway exit. He’d given up fast food six months prior - Doctor’s orders - but heart was full and his pockets had an extra twenty dollars owed to his friend who could never collect, and that particular burger joint’s brand of garbage meat was always Don’s favorite.

“Burger and a shake on you, pal?” Ritchie said, guiding his old bucket from the fast lane to the freeway exit. “How can I resist?”

His gut would hurt like Hell tomorrow, but he’d laugh like Hell all night long.

* * *

“So long, Mr. Butt,” you whisper absentmindedly as the old truck in front of you drifts off the freeway. It’s one of the many things he’d have found hilarious had he been here. In all likelihood, though, he wouldn’t be and neither would you.

If the scraps of information that blew your way from mutual friends or social media were to be believed, the two of you would be nowhere near the reception range for your hometown radio station. Now, over a decade since you charged back into his parents’ house after graduation and said in no uncertain terms you were not leaving, you’re coming across this song again curled up next to each other in the too small but still cozy apartment you share and it’s playing over the end credits of a cheesy rom-com. You hardly notice, though, because you’ve been telling him that the climactic scene in the rain wasn’t filmed in San Francisco at all but was actually filmed in Vancouver because there are areas with similar architectural signatures - You’re an architect, by the way, which was never a passion you expected to pursue but when you changed colleges you changed majors a few times and out of nowhere in your junior year architecture really stuck, so anytime something like this pops up in a movie or on TV you geek out and he listens with a seemingly bottomless well of patience because you know he doesn’t care but he indulges. What’s more, the street corner they filmed on is only a twenty minute walk away! You suggest going to check it out tomorrow morning - There’s a pretty good breakfast spot that just opened up in that area and you’ve heard nothing but good things - but he asks why you can’t just go now.

You can think of a lot of reasons. It’s cold outside. It’s midnight. You both have work in the morning. But he’s already by the door, shoes on and jacket zipping definitively. He holds yours out to you and you smile. This bundled-up sprite is offering you another yet another adventure, just like he has year after year, wisely suggesting there are so many foolish and delightful things to do just outside your front door. You’ll be cold. You’ll be tired. But what other responsibilities do you have aside from being together? When the song on the TV has reached its raucous outro, you’re reminded of the last time you were so compelled to buck expectations. Kneeling on the couch backwards, resting your head on your arms, you can’t believe there was a time you almost let this go. The image is too perfect.

It would be.

Because it’s not real.

“Are we almost home?” your child asks from the back seat.

You’re back.

“Not just yet,” you reply. “Almost.”

“Where’d you go?” your partner asks, genuinely earnest and painfully loving, tilting the passenger seat back to an upright position.

“Just tired.” You rub your eyes to prove it. Or were there some lingering tears to hide? They’d be the last ones, you decide, and flick the radio off to bury the final seconds of the song and the memories and the life you never had back where they belong.

Whiplash.

You’ve lived thirteen years in three minutes and fourteen seconds, and now you’ve got to grieve it even faster. It shouldn’t be this easy. Or maybe it should. It’s a defense mechanism, after all.

“You alright?”

You say you’re fine.

You’re pretty sure it’s true.

- End -

By Max Tachis