License to Speak

Georgia? That’s an odd one. So far from home it sticks out like a sore thumb. Where did that mud on the bumper come from? It’s probably jus dirt from California. There’s no telling how long the red car has been here, could be a year or more. Just another Southerner; just like the East coaster, and Midwesterner, out to make it in the golden state of perpetual bliss and sunshine.
Driving down the highway my attention turns back to the matter at hand, this diatribe Kacey seems to be giving in the seat next to me. I wish I could tell you that I’m intensely listening to the story, hanging on every word, but I’m not. I know this one; it was the same last week, and the week before that. What is captivating my attention at this moment is a devious scheme to see how long she takes to realize I haven’t a clue as to the details of this particular situation. It isn’t as if I don’t care or that it doesn’t matter, no the real nucleus is an inability to resolve a character flaw in someone we love. At some point you come to the realization it doesn’t matter what you say. So why say it?
The flat landscape all around I once used to play in is dominated by new buildings on either side. Slowly rising out of the grasses and tiny hills they transform the solitude into a bustle of acceptable distractions. My vision jumps back and forth from a big box store to some housing to a shopping center. I’m admiring the landscape configurations, the offices with the faux columns trying to lend a classical aspect to an otherwise dull rectangular building, all much more intriguing than the conversation at hand. The height of modern commercial architecture pushes for beauty at no cost. Oh how Brunelleschi and Michelangelo must be proud. Beyond the human expanse I know nature still creeps at the edges.
“Are you even listening to me?” She says with an apparent frustration in her voice.
“Yeah no I got you” as say as I try to recover by scanning through the memory bank of every one of theses conversations looking for a coalescing response. “I can’t believe that they still have the two of you working together.”
“I know it seems like they just don’t understand the…” She’s still going and I’m already fading back out into the void.
A sudden wave of guilt begins to roll over me as I realize I’m the one who she is supposed to be able to say these things too. I mean I can drabble on endlessly about work or the newest book I’m reading. I talk about evenings spent with friends, proudly retelling the most mundane of events. Why can’t I sit here attentively attuned to a basic conversation? I love listening to a myriad of things she has to say, at all times of day, on any given topic, at a moments notice. We talk, we laugh, and we weigh the solidity of society on a regular basis. I owe it to her right? I owe it to listen as if I’d rather be no where else in the world, right? Ok, breath, just breath. I can do this one. Ignore the big rig out of your rearview and just focus on the task at hand.
“What do you think I should do?” She blurts out right in rhythm with the ease of any loaded question.
Uh oh, now where do I go? I know what she wants to hear, and I know what should be said. Do I take the leap and actually get into another devils advocate situation? I keep thinking of the old adage “the truth will set you free,” but I have a feeling whoever wrote that probably never dealt with someone who denies their responsibility in a conflict over and over again. Can I opt out with just agreeing?
“Um, I really don’t know.” Few cop-outs leave either party really satisfied but now I remember why I’m not listening; self preservation.
What’s that? Another vehicle from Georgia, only it’s a white SUV. What are the odds of two in one day?