My father had a 1983 black Volkswagen GTI hatchback, it had grey and orange seats with a cigarette burn in the passenger side. I can feel the recycled cool air pump through the vents, fighting against the warm humid air in the car and the smoke from my father's cigarette. The radio player is lit up a neon green - the small square buttons set to his favorite stations, the two big knobs to control the volume and tuner, and a Simon & Garfunkel tape in the tape deck.
The air conditioning never fully took in that car. My dad's window was always cracked and it always let a bit of the outside in - biting 7am cold and sticky summer heat, but also the first warmth of spring or the blessed cool of autumn, it didn't matter. It was for his cigarette mostly - he ashed out his window so often that the glass had smoked over on the edges, like how a finger nail changes color when it grows past your finger. But my mom always said he felt claustrophobic too - I always assumed it meant that the car felt too close to him, but maybe it was the silence he didn't like. The white noise of the wind outside could fill the spaces between songs.
Because there were always songs - early in the morning to late at night, I don't remember there not being music in that car. A lot of the time it was Disney for me and my sister, but other times it was music for him, music that became mine. Simon & Garfunkel most of all - that was music that was his but it is now mine.
Sometimes I am scared I am too much like my dad - I feel his singular beauty and utter waste inside of me. He had an immense humanity, a naturalness to him that people gravitated to, he could be your everything. But there was never anything for him. He lived on moments - moments of connection and deep feelings - those moments that others remember for the rest of their lives. But those moments aren't for everyday - they wouldn't be special if they were. I don't think he knew what to do with his every day. I don't think I do either. I wish he had figured it out - I have hope that I will.
Back in the car It is dark, and we are all quiet. I know the tape well enough to anticipate what song is next, and I know by the picked guitar strings that my favorite song is starting. The song is desperate and lonely, but not hopeless - there is still some strength in the protagonist. But I don't know those feelings well enough at age 7. In my mind it just sounds sad and beautiful. I don't even know if I knew all the words yet, but I know the melody and I know the chorus. You can sing out 'Lie La Lie Lie Lie La Lie' at most any age. You can lose yourself in it as the strings build and snare crashes heavy, singing loud if you like, or just to yourself as you stare at I-95 out of your dad's Volkswagen's window - on the way home from who knows where.
I have sung this chorus so many times in my life - I sang it when I was 14 and sad for no reason. I sang it when I was 19 and scared no one would ever love me. I sang it again a year later as it played on the little radio as my father lay dying. I sing it now as a 36 year old. Sometimes I sing it loud, other times I hum it low, only for me, like I did in that car that summer night. It always makes me a little sad - but it always gives me a little hope too. It was his song, now it is mine.
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