Making Headway

Making Headway

The highway traffic began as a slow inconvenience and thickened into a kind of punishment.

Vehicles of all shapes and sizes stretched along the sprawling asphalt, a metallic river gone solid. Engines idled. Brake lights burned red without purpose. Someone leaned on their horn as if sheer noise might shove hundreds of vehicles forward.

Somewhere further than the eye could see, something had gone very wrong.

David gripped the steering wheel as if he might otherwise float away. He sat next to his brooding fifteen-year-old son in their faded blue sedan, sealed together in a silence that had been building for close to a year.

David’s fingers tapped on the wheel. The dashboard clock blinked repeatedly because he had never figured out how to set it.

His wife had known how.

She knew how to reset the car clock without the manual. Three buttons. Two taps. Done. She knew how to fix the Wi-Fi when it stopped working. She knew how to talk to Tyler when he retreated into that quiet teenage shell David could never quite crack.

Now it was just the two of them.

Tyler’s head leaned against the passenger window, headphones on, though nothing was playing. The cord trailed down to the floor - not plugged in. He was staring out the window at the endless line of cars as if it were a documentary about boredom.

The air conditioner struggled. David cleared his throat.

“So,” he said, aiming for casual, “this is… some traffic jam.”

Tyler didn’t move. “Yep.”

David nodded as if they had just shared something meaningful.

A minute passed.

“I used to listen to the radio on long drives,” David said. “Before cell phones did everything. Before cell phones, period.”

Tyler shifted slightly. “Whatever.”

Another minute passed. A car nearby blasted music with a bass line strong enough to rattle the side mirrors.

David tried again. “So, how’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Anything interesting happening?” David just wanted to move beyond monosyllabic responses.

“No.”

“How's robotics club?”

Tyler finally turned his head.

“I told you I quit that like three months ago. You asked me about it last week, too.”

“Right. Right.” David winced. “Sorry. In my defense, grief has turned my brain into mashed potatoes.”

Tyler snorted. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, and I’m sorry.”

Tyler looked back out the window, but his shoulders relaxed a little.

David pushed his luck.

“You know your mom always said you got your attitude from me.”

Tyler turned slowly. “No way.”

“Oh, you absolutely did.”

“Example.”

“You make the same face I do when someone says something stupid.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow. “You mean like the one I’m making at you right now?”

David nodded. “Yes! Exactly.”

Tyler shook his head. “Mom said my sarcasm came from her.”

“Your mom believed a lot of flattering things about herself.”

Tyler bit his lower lip. David knew this too well - his son was trying not to smile.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t quite as sharp as before.

David glanced at the GPS.

“Apparently,” he said, “there’s an accident up ahead. Could be another 30 minutes or more.”

Tyler shrugged.

David leaned back, released his seatbelt, and stretched his stiff shoulders and back.

“You know,” he said, “when I was your age, traffic like this meant people got out of their cars.”

Tyler snorted. “That’s dumb.”

“It wasn’t dumb. People talked. Threw footballs around. One time, a guy fried a dozen eggs on the asphalt.”

“Sounds fake.”

“It happened.”

“Did Mom tell you that story?”

“No.”

“Then it’s fake.”

David opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. They sat there long enough for the sunlight to slide slowly across the dashboard.

Eventually, a woman two cars ahead stepped out of her SUV and stretched. Then someone else climbed out of a van. Within minutes, doors were opening along the freeway as people drifted onto the pavement.

David looked at Tyler.

“Want to stretch your legs?”

“No.”

“You’ve been sitting for over an hour.”

“So?”

“Come on.”

Tyler sighed like the request had personally offended him, but he pulled off his headphones and opened the door.

The freeway felt strangely quiet outside the car. Engines hummed, but the absence of vehicle movement made it feel like a giant parking lot.

A man leaned against his truck, eating pretzels. Someone tossed a tennis ball to a well-heeled dog. A twenty-something woman sat on the hood of her car scrolling through her phone while smoking a cigarette, like it was the most natural place in the world to hang out.

David stretched, and it felt like he might not be able to fold himself back into the car.

“See?” he said. “Not so bad.”

Tyler shoved his hands into his pockets. “It sucks.”

They wandered a few yards from the car.

“Well, at least we are somewhat in the middle and not the last car.”

“If we were the last car, we could turn around and go the other way.”

David didn’t need to see that his son was rolling his eyes. He knew his kid by now.

A sharp teenage voice cut through the air.

“Really, Mom? I told you I wanted the white ones!”

The mother answered. “They are white.”

“They’re off-white! Hello?"

A woman stood with an open shoebox on her hood. Next to her, a girl around Tyler's age held up a pair of sneakers as if they smelled.

“These are cream.” The girl somehow gave cream two syllables. “My outfit is white.”

“They’re fine. They look the same,” the mother replied.

“They absolutely do not! Are you color blind?” The girl held the sneaker dramatically into the sunlight. “You don’t understand aesthetics.”

“You’re going to wear them inside a mall.”

“That’s the point!” She tossed the shoe into the backseat. “And now they’re creased!”

The mother pinched the bridge of her nose.

“We are stuck on a highway. Nobody is inspecting your shoes.”

“People notice things!”

“Yes, they’ll notice you yelling.”

“I’m yelling because you bought the wrong shoes!”

David felt a laugh bubbling up. Beside him, Tyler made a strangled sound.

The girl dug into another shopping bag.

“OMG, are you being serious right now?” She held up a drink. “You didn’t get the right one!”

“It’s sparkling water,” the mother said.

“I wanted mango sparkling water.”

“They were out.”

“You could’ve gone to another store!”

“I didn’t realize we were preparing for a freeway beverage critique.”

“So not only will I be late for my mani-pedi, but I have nothing to drink. I could literally die of dehydration out here, and it would be all your fault.”

Tyler burst out laughing. David couldn’t help but laugh, too.

The girl spun around and glared at them. “It’s not funny!”

Tyler wiped tears from his eyes. “It kind of is.”

“Asshole!” The girl said as she climbed back into the car and slammed the door so hard David could swear he felt a slight breeze.

The mother gave them a worn-out smile.

“Enjoy your quiet while you have it,” she said before climbing into the driver’s seat.

David and Tyler stood there a moment.

“Cream sneakers, end of civilization, as we know it,” Tyler said.

David nodded. “Emergency beverage critique.”

Tyler laughed again. “You know what Mom would’ve done?”

“What?”

“She would have poured that drink over the girl’s head.”

David barked out a laugh. “She absolutely would have.”

Tyler grinned and kicked a pebble across the pavement. “Hey, remember the grocery store labels?”

“Yes, Ty, yes, I do,” David smirked.

Tyler was already laughing. “When you told Mom grocery shopping was boring.”

“It is boring.”

“So, she started renaming everything out loud.”

David was grinning and shaking his head.

“She picked up kale and said, ‘Ah, yes, sad, hairy lettuce.’ And tofu was ‘emotionally confused cheese.’” Tyler smiled, and it actually reached his eyes.

For the first time in months, his son was talking without being asked. The sound of it felt fragile, like something that might disappear if David moved too quickly. Tyler continued, and it was far better than any song David could’ve selected on the car stereo.

“She called cauliflower ‘ghost broccoli.’”

“And when that lady asked where the quinoa was -” David added.

Tyler finished the sentence. “She said, ‘Probably in aisle four questioning its life choices.’”

David sighed. “Your mother thought she was hilarious.”

Tyler shrugged, then whispered, “She was the best. I miss her so much.”

“Me, too.”

Their laughter lingered for a beat, then faded.

Finally, people cheered as they hurried back to their vehicles. Cars shuddered to life as engines started.

Tyler walked beside his father toward their sedan.

Before climbing in, Tyler said casually, “So… what music did you and Mom listen to on your road trips?”

David started the engine and smiled. “Oh, you are about to regret asking that.”

Tyler buckled his seatbelt. “Please do not play the yodeling guy.”

David glanced at Tyler. Something loosened in his chest. Sometime in the long, quiet months after his beloved wife had died, he had stopped seeing the very best part of them both in their son, who had been right beside David all along.

“How can I not play the yodeling guy now?”

“Turn the car around, Dad,” Tyler said, laughing, as they gradually rolled forward over the sun-warmed pavement.