she calls out to me.Do I want to drive? I’m already in the passenger seat, with my seat belt and shoulder strap fastened and the door locked, holding a full-to-the-brim traveler’s mug of hot coffee in my left hand, and an open copy of the current issue of Movieline magazine in my right. Would that suggest the appearance of someone who wants to drive?I am forced to balance the sloshing mug between my knees so I can roll down the window.“No, Mother, I do not,” I say.“Well, OK then,” she says, and locks the house door and gets into the car.“Mother, you know I haven’t driven you anywhere since I was sixteen and you kept slamming down imaginary brakes on the passenger side,” I tell her. “It was severely traumatizing.”“Oh, Hampton. I’ve never seen anybody hang on to things as long as you do. That was so many years ago.”So many years ago? Mother’s unexpected reference to my age makes me bristle, even though I know she probably didn’t intend it as a dig.“It wasn’t that long ago, Mother.
What do You think about The Music Of Your Life (2004)?
