Kerthunk… Kerthunk… Kerthunk… I could hear my light blue 1990 Ford Escort go over the cracks in the pavement. I was headed northbound on the highway, going eighty miles an hour. I told David I’d meet him at eight. It was 7:30 now. There was no way I was going to get to Plymouth by eight. Maybe 8:15 if I was lucky and didn’t run into the cops. Kerthunk… Kerthunk… Kerthunk… That was my life’s rhythm, screaming northbound on the highway, late as usual. David always said I was the perfect musician type. Always running late, always staying up late, driving too fast in a car you’re surprised makes it up to that speed anyway.

I reached over to the tape deck, not even looking at it and pushed in the mix tape I had made of artists that no one seemed to know about. I sighed. These were the good musicians. These were the people that should be dominating the top 40 charts. These were still real musicians. They were my inspiration, and they were my life’s soundtrack.

I sang with the tape like I’d been the one who wrote the songs and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Maybe one day in this life my rhythm would change and I’d be a bit more like them, but until then I’d just have to listen and hope they’d drown out the kerthunk… kerthunk… kerthunk… of the highway.