Slide - Kyle Beachy [51]
“Are you aware that the songs on these CDs are horrible? This is a concern my generation has about your generation. This comes from a complete certainty that our own music was crap, and therefore yours must be even crapper.”
“You can't judge someone based on something given them as a gift,” she said. “A gift only speaks of the person giving it.”
“I remember one Christmas being given two different Jane Goodall biographies,” I said. “The ape woman.”
“And what's this generation nonsense?”
“Are we still sitting here?” I said. “I was sure we'd begun moving by now.”
Zoe laughed and pulled us away from the curb. I could see this little girl at her fortieth birthday party, taking the number in stride, stepping over it like some sidewalk crack.
“The boys I know seem to think a mix CD is this like ultraper-fect present. And I'm supposed to gush thanks and think of them every time I play it. Since they require upward of five entire minutes to make.”
“There was a time when a mix tape meant a lot of clicking noises. Holding your finger above the pause and record buttons of the tape deck. My God. You don't remember any of this.”
“Old man sitting next to me,” she said. “Dear old man in my car.”
I felt her downshift into a curve and accelerate out in second gear. The kids who'd thrown toilet paper at her house might have had no other option. They were only doing what they could to keep up. I clutched the rubberized handle above the window so I wouldn't have to think about where to put my hands.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You and I are going for a drive because we're neighbors. Stop being suspicious.”
My legs were crossed tightly enough to hold water. She had one hand on the gearshift, the other draped over the steering wheel. Hair ponytailed neatly. I wiped a palm on my thigh.
“Left,” I said.
“Well then.”
The evening was cool enough that we didn't need the air conditioner. The odor of barbecue hovered thick and smoky everywhere we went. Grilled MEAT. Zoe ejected the CD and tossed it into the backseat. I chose a case from the floor mat and quickly scanned its song list. Once again I was appalled. What nature of person would combine these songs? I slid the disk into the player and went to track four.
“Go right,” I said.
“I like this one,” she said. “Who is this?”
“Johnny Cash, one of a select few men who could get away with doing Taco Bell commercials. Apparently one of your suitors has good taste. I say pick him.”
“I'm not picking any of them. These CDs don't represent a catalog of potential mates. They give them to me. Sometimes I listen.”
There were very few cars on the road with us, and those we passed seemed energized in a way I wasn't used to. They were more determined in their goinghood, drivers eager, I guessed, to get home and cook meat. Summer nights like this can be counted on fingers in St. Louis, they are the exception to the rule of mug and weight.
“I got my license from the DMV in that strip mall over there,” I said.
“I don't think that branch exists anymore. It's been closed for a few years.”
“I'd be happier if we didn't think about that.”
“You're really not all that old, you know. Also I wish you'd realize how little it matters.”
I replayed the Johnny Cash song and said, “Turn into here.”
It was a small parking lot for a small public park, empty but for a dark blue station wagon tucked alone in the back corner. At one end of the lot was a group of picnic tables beneath a kind of wall-less barn. Beyond were baseball diamonds and soccer fields. To our right was the reason I'd brought us here, the Rocket Slide. Zoe parked us facing the playground area, and for a moment we sat in silence, taking it in. There was the red, white, and blue spire painted to look like a rocket, the system of ladders and bridges that spiraled around it, the three slides and unsteady wooden bridge and jungle gym components at its base. The swings and