Driver Picks the Music
By NC Girl
Note: I've always wondered why Dean, a guy in his late 20s, would be so stuck on music that was mostly recorded before he was born or shortly thereafter. This is my attempt to explain that. However, I'm sure this topic has been covered before and I'm sure this is not an original explanation so if this story mirrors one you've read or written, please accept my apology. It is strictly a coincidence.
This takes place during season 2- somewhere toward the end of the season, although it doesn't reference any particular episode. Just sometime before "All Hell Breaks Loose."
Sam makes fun of my music. Terms like "Mullet Rock" and "Camero Classics" and "Muscle Music" are used often to try to get a rise out of me, but that's just what brothers do to annoy each other. My rebuttal is to simply "turn it up," to borrow the line from Lynyrd Sknyard, and that usually triggers my desired effect on Sam. Well, it's more of a reaction than Sam's name-calling has on me, anyway. But I know my brother and I know that he really holds a deep appreciation for all things classic whether he's willing to admit it to me or not. Classic movies, classic books, classic cars, classic rock- the four topics which have been the basis of nearly every great bonding conversation and heated debate that we've had over the years. Well, maybe I'm not as interested in the classic books as he is, but I've read my share. Okay, okay,so maybe I just saw the movie versions, but I got the gist of the story, right?
Still, Sam likes to pretend that he only tolerates my choice of music while we are on the road.
"Dude, seriously, can't we listen to something recorded in this century at least? Shoot, I'd settle for something recorded in our lifetime!"
I just grinned and turned up the volume. He frowned, twisted in his seat to look directly at me, and raised his voice- not only in volume, but by at least one octave.
"Thirty minutes, Dean. It's all I ask. And I'll take just about anything: Pop, alternative, classical… hell, I'd even take country, Dean. "
I rolled my head and gave my brother the best "eat shit" grin I could pull together. The desperation in Sam's voice only made it that much more fun to torment the guy. After nearly nine hours on the road, I could tell that he really was about to lose it… and I wasn't about to give him a break. Why, that would go against every rule in the big brother handbook, especially, "When kid brother is at his wit's end, step it up a notch."
"Sammy, driver picks the music…"
"Finish that sentence, Dean. I dare you."
I couldn't help but laugh as Sam twisted back around, slouched down, and leaned his head back against the back of the seat looking for all the world like a pouting 10 year old trapped in the body of a giant.
"Jackass," he mumbled under his breath, bitterly accepting defeat.
It's definitely not the first time we've had this "discussion." Shoot, it's not even the first time this week. Ever since Sam lost his beloved iPod back in Michigan, the topic has come up quite frequently, actually. I think, more than anything, it's just his way of dealing with the loss. At least that's my theory, but who am I to play armature psychologist? Lucky for Sam I happen to care about the kid. Almost as much as I care about the fact that he hasn't stopped whining since he discovered he'd lost his electronic ear-appendage. So, earlier today, with the help of my new credit card (courtesy of a Mr. Philip Rudd) I bought him another "crack-pod." I figured I'd let him get good and worked-up over my choice of music then give the player to him when we stop for the night. He can then download music to his alternative heart's content (anything that isn't my music is an alternative in my book). Tomorrow's drive won't be as entertaining for me, but it sure will be quieter.
Sam's not the only one who has questioned my musical choices lately. In fact, the leggy blond waitress from the pizza joint couldn't let go of the fact that I didn't know (or care) about Dave Matthews and was only slightly familiar with Radiohead. I didn't bother to tell her that I only knew Radiohead because Sam insisted on driving last month after I was clocked by a pissed-off poltergeist. Driver picks the music…
"How old are you?" she asked, almost condescendingly.
"Hey, it's just that I like the classics. You know, music that spans generations; the building blocks of the stuff (crap) you listen to. I can't help it if Greenhead massacres it in the process."
"Green Day," she replied as if she'd corrected me for the hundredth time that afternoon. Yeah, she was definitely hot, but annoying as hell.
"So, why are you so stuck on the classic rock?" Again with the condescension. But although I'd rather shoot myself in the knee than justify my musical taste to her, she did pose a good question. It was one that I actually spent quite a bit of time considering as we continued our trip from Detroit to Denver.
One of my earliest memories revolved around the day Dad brought home his first, fully-loaded stereo. I think mom was pregnant with Sam at the time because I distinctly remember Dad justifying the purchase by saying that it would soothe the crying baby. I don't think Mom bought that excuse for a minute, but she agreed that he had a point and helped him program the classical music stations into the first 3 memory settings on the receiver. I also remember Dad showing off all the bells and whistles: the turn table, the 8-track and cassette player, the stereo sound, and the digital receiver. He spent what seemed like hours arranging the speakers along with the furniture in the living room so that no matter where a person sat, they would be treated to the best sounding music technology had to offer.
"Okay, little man, time to see how real music sounds on this baby."
Dad gave me three albums to choose from and I clearly remember picking the one with the nearly solid black cover simply because I liked the way it looked. By the time I was four, I had already a heightened sense of "coolness." Some may even call me a "coolness prodigy." Either way, I was rewarded with a high-five from Dad. "I knew you had excellent taste, son."
Dad fired up his stereo and set the needle on the vinyl. AC/DC roared to life, filling every corner of the house with the sounds of heavy base, strong guitar, and steady dream beats. The sight of my father, grinning ear to ear while he fiddled with all of the stereo's adjustment knobs is one I will never forget as long as I life.
And that's what started it for me. The stereo came to life whenever dad was in a good mood: weekends, parties, the day they brought Sammy home from the hospital, any time the Kansas City Royals won a baseball game, Arbor Day…whatever. Just about any occasion would become the excuse to "celebrate with a little music."
Of course, that all ended abruptly later that fall. The fire that took away the biggest source of happiness for dad, Sammy and me also destroyed nearly all of our material possessions. With the exception of the clothes on our back and a handful of salvaged items collected by a well-meaning neighbor, we were completely starting over- in more ways than one. That was the day the music died.
I don't remember hearing any music for months, maybe even years, after mom's death. Even as a kid that struck me as odd. So the day that the music returned was one that I remember vividly. Although I can't remember exactly what triggered that event, I distinctly remember being relieved. If I were to play armature psychologist again, I suppose that's when I knew that Dad was on the mend; able to be happy again, to some degree. Music equaled happiness. And not just any music. Dad's music. The head-banging, fast-driving, adrenalin-pumping music that lifted his spirits and lightened his mood.
I think all guys go through an intense music phase beginning in the early years of high school, but mine started much earlier. It was my 4th grade teacher, Mr. Edwards, who noticed it first. He was probably around the same age as dad and apparently they had similar tastes in bands. Once he realized that I not only liked the same kinds of music, but had actually developed a fairly sophisticated appreciation for it, he would talk to me about different bands, guitars, musicians and styles. He even introduced me to many old blues artists- a direct influence to modern styles, he said. And on the last day of school, Mr. Edwards handed me a shoe box filled with cassette tapes.
"Dean," he said to me, "my wife insists that we convert the game room into a nursery to prepare for the new baby. I'm hoping you can take care of these for me and give them a good home."
That box of tapes became the foundation of my collection and the fuel that fed the developing addiction.
As hunting became a bigger part of our lives, so did the music. It energized Dad, Sam and me in similar ways; it pumped us up, got the blood flowing and the adrenalin moving. Dad would pop in a tape and we'd start the drive to the site of each hunt, playing it as loud as we could stand it. He let Sam and me take turns picking the music from the box until we started spending more time arguing over the selections that listening to them. Of course, that all changed on one particular hunt, the weekend before I started high school.
After listening to one particularly loud and colorful "discussion" between me and Sam, Dad finally reached his breaking point. He yanked the box from my hands and "The Rule" was born.
"Okay, from this point forward, the driver picks the music," he said definitively, trying to control his temper as he slid a tape into the player on the dash. While Dad was distracted with the player, I reached behind the seat and smacked Sam against the side of his head, receiving a punch to my shoulder in return. Then, as I opened my mouth to protest the new rule, I suddenly received a stern look from the man behind the wheel. "And shotgun will shut his pie hole."
Warning received.
Loud and clear.
The day I got my driver's license was a milestone in more ways than one. Although I had known how to drive since I was 13, and on more than one occasion had driven home from hunts when Dad was just too tired or too hurt to maneuver the car safely, I was now legal. This allowed us the flexibility to expand our standard routine on hunts as well as the logistics of everyday life. But for me, the best part of having a license meant that I was an official driver. And the driver picks the music.
But the music suddenly died again, nearly six years later, when Sam announced he was leaving for college. He dropped several hints over the previous six months, trying to give me fair warning, but that didn't soften the blow when he formalized his intentions and punctuated his determination with what nearly turned into a physical fight with Dad. As much as I tried to stay out of the argument, understanding and agreeing with both sides, I was constantly pulled in by the two people I cared about the most in this world. I finally ended my involvement by abruptly walking out the back door, grabbing the keys to the Impala on the way. The sudden slam of the screen door announced my departure and gave way to about 15 seconds of silence before the fighting started again.
I honestly don't remember where I went; I just remember driving. In silence. Only the rumble of the engine could be heard as my mind raced. Sam was leaving and I couldn't do anything to stop him. I couldn't follow and therefore I couldn't protect him. But more importantly, he was leaving the family. Together we were balanced, stable, and sturdy. I was balanced, stable and sturdy. With Sam gone, we would become like a tripod with a missing leg; unstable and in constant danger of toppling.
I returned to a too quiet house over an hour later. As I approached the back door, I saw Dad sitting in the dark on the lawn chair behind the house. His elbows were propped on his knees and his head was resting in his hands. He didn't look up, but he spoke with a voice that was hoarse from yelling and now raw with emotion. "You might want to go talk to your brother. He's leaving tonight."
I did talk to Sam. I talked myself hoarse and talked myself crazy. I tried to talk him out of leaving and into staying, but in the end, I knew his mind was made up. Say what you want about the guy, he knows what he wants. Always has. And he knows how to fight for it.
I took my brother to the train station that night, riding in complete silence the entire way as each of us tried to find something left to say. I waited with Sam until they were nearly finished boarding then forced two hundred dollars into the breast pocket of his coat before pulling him into a fierce hug. I held him tightly and tried to say everything with the embrace that I wanted to say with words but couldn't: Be careful; Take care of yourself; Don't worry about Dad, I'll talk to him; Call me if you need anything; and I love you. After a moment, Sam turned his head, kissed me quickly on the temple, and boarded the train without looking back.
I returned to the car and started the 45 minute drive home with only the rumble of the car's engine to drown out my sobs.
Dad and I avoided each other for nearly four weeks after Sam left, exchanging words only when absolutely necessary. Dad took a couple of two- and three-day solo hunting jobs followed by a two-week job with Bobby while I stayed behind and filled in for a buddy down at the neighborhood draft bar. We needed time away from each other to process everything that had happened over the past few weeks.
And exactly one month after Sam left, I received a letter from him in the mail.
It was fairly short, but honest and heartfelt. He described his first weeks of class, his living arrangements, and the girl he met the previous weekend while he was standing in line at the bookstore. I knew my brother then as well as I know him now and he truly sounded happy.
The second part of the letter was an apology, mostly to me and partly to Dad. He explained his need to pursue his education and to try to make it on his own. He expressed regret at the way everything was handled and the way he left that night, and it seemed important to him that I understand that. And in the final line of the letter, he thanked me for my support, said that he loved me, and asked me to tell Dad that he loved him, too. Sam signed the letter with his name and his new cell phone number, which I immediately programmed into mine.
Later that night Dad returned home from his hunting trip with Bobby, pulling into the driveway with a huge, black pick-up. Suddenly the buzz I had from receiving Sam's letter all but disappeared and my stomach dropped.
"Dad?" I couldn't get the obvious question out of my mouth; I was terrified of the answer. But Dad smiled, laying a heavy hand on my shoulder.
"Relax, son. It's at Bobby's. He's rotating the tires and giving it a good tune-up. Tomorrow we'll head over there to pick it up. I had the title transferred into your name, Dean. As of today, she's all yours."
I stared at Dad as if he had completely lost his mind. He laughed at my reaction.
"Dean, I know this past month has been hard on you. And I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry for the things I said to Sam and I'm sorry for the way I handled everything. And I want-"
"I heard from him, Dad. I got a letter from Sam today."
Dad stopped talking in mid-sentence and the wave of emotions that crossed my father's face was too much for me to absorb. I looked away but handed Sam's letter to him. There was a long silence as Dad read the note and when I looked back, there were unshed tears in his eyes. I couldn't remember seeing my father cry since the night mom died.
"Thank you, Dean. Thank you for showing this to me," he said, his voice raw and tight. I could only nod as I took the letter back and stuffed it into my pocket. Dad reached out and clasped a hand around the back of my neck, giving it a squeeze before he patted my cheek and walked toward the kitchen.
"Get some rest, son. We'll leave for Bobby's first thing in the morning."
And we did. Bobby lived almost 3 hours away which gave me plenty of time to check out all the bells and whistles of Dad's new truck, won in a high-stakes poker game three nights earlier. It was nearly new with only 20,000 miles on the odometer. And when Dad slid one of the five CDs he'd purchased as a celebratory gift to himself into the player, everything was right again in my world. The music was back and balance was restored- well, as much as it could be with Sam still 2,000 miles away in California. But things were looking up and we were going to be okay. I reached over and raised the volume as "Back in Black" started with its familiar opening guitar riffs.
"Dean!"
"What?!" I shouted in reaction to Sam's punch to my shoulder, shocking me out of my thoughts.
"Dude, you're practically in a trance. And you're driving! Do you even know where we are?"
I had no idea. I scanned the highway in front of us for visual clues to try to save face.
"Of course I do, Sam." I tried my best to sound annoyed enough that he'd drop the subject, but instead, he called my bluff.
"Fine. Then tell me what we just passed."
I started to look in the rear-view mirror when my brother reached up and tilted it toward him. Damn him.
"Trees." It seemed like a safe bet.
"Be a little more specific, Dean." As I wracked my brain to recall a significant object, Sam let out a sigh. "Dean, you were completely zoning. You have no idea what's been going on for the past half -hour. You have no idea that this tape has been replaying the same song over and over and over, effectively driving me to the brink of insanity, and I swear to God, Dean, if you don't do something about this music, I'm going to take a damn swan dive into full-blown crazy!!"
I looked over at my brother and nearly laughed out loud. He was so worked up it was beyond funny and bordering on hilarious.
"Sam, relax. That vein in the middle of your forehead is about to pop," I said as I reached out toward his head. He batted my hand away and punched me in the shoulder a second time. This time, I did laugh out loud.
"Okay, okay. Sorry. I had something on my mind."
"What? What could you have been thinking about so intently that you totally missed the broken-down bus of Playboy models on the side of the road back there?"
Whoa! That caught my attention! I reached for the rear-view mirror and quickly tried to readjust it. "Are you serious? Sam! We've got to go back." I threw a quick glance to my brother and did a double-take. Sam just threw me a line of bullshit and I grabbed right onto it.
"You're kidding."
"Yes."
"Ass."
"Well…" He didn't really continue; just sighed. Then smiled. Then laughed.
It was my turn to throw a punch.
"Man, you shoulda seen your face! Damn, I wish I had a camera! That look was priceless, Dean!"
"Yeah, laugh it up, Chuckles. Payback's a bitch, remember?"
"Whatever," he said around another laugh. I couldn't help but smile. "Just do something about this tape that has been stuck on the same song for 45 minutes now, would ya?"
I reached into the box between me and my brother and pulled out another tape from the collection. With one hand, I successfully ejected the old one and stuck in the new. This time, Metallica came to life and I stepped on the gas pedal a little harder. Music equals happiness, but not just any music. Dad's music. And for the first time since Dad died, I was beginning to feel happy again.
08/05/07