At the last stoplight as we neared the medical campus, I asked my driver a question. Alexander was a big bear of a man in gray slacks and a navy polo shirt, with a messy salt and pepper beard too short to be considered unkempt. It matched his moderately unruly hair, which was bushy in back and receding in the front.
The interior of his car, a discontinued compact model known for its fuel efficiency, mirrored his appearance: rumpled but serviceable, with dark carpets and cloth seats that were clean on the balance but could use a once-over with a DustBuster. We hadn’t spoken much but he had an accent I would’ve wagered was Eastern European.
“Are you a musician?” My query made him laugh from his belly and his mirthful reaction drew my attention to the deep wrinkles and creases around his hooded eyes. Most people look younger when they laugh, but Alexander looked 10 years older.
“The furthest thing from it!” he said. “I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”
“Same here,” I volunteered.
“Why do you ask?”
“You listen to better music than other drivers,” I replied, settling for something that was true but less specific — and potentially less creepy — than what I was thinking, which was The way you drummed your fingers on the steering wheel to an obscure Talking Heads song. The percussion and basslines you seem to prefer, since the stereo’s connected to a USB stick, not the usual satellite or terrestrial radio.*
His eyes crinkled again with amusement.
“Just what I grew up with,” he said modestly, beaming as if he were Tina Weymouth or the ghost of Walter Becker.
“Talking Heads are one of my favorite bands,” I revealed.
“They’re so good!” he exclaimed.
Led Zeppelin’s “D’yer Mak’er” started playing as we approached the PT building where I’d meet with the speech therapist. Zeppelin was my former partner’s favorite band, or so she claimed — I’d give the edge to the Rolling Stones — and Robert Plant’s voice always feels like the reopening of old wounds. I wasn’t too broken up about exiting midway through it, but Alexander pulled into a parking spot instead of doing the usual drop and dash near the curb.
“I enjoyed our ride,” he said as we bid farewell. So had I. His playlist told me more about him than I ever would’ve learned from small talk, and I was left to ponder its most incongruous track as I sat in the waiting room: “Michelle,” by the Beatles.** Maybe he simply liked it, or maybe it reminded him of someone special he’d known back home. Might he prefer Rubber Soul to Revolver? I’ll never know the answer but suspect he probably does. I’m a Revolver girl myself.
* The USB stick endeared him to me because that’s how I listen to music in my car — or how I did when I still drove it every day. It has a standard radio and CD player, but no bluetooth this-or-that. I keep my phone in my purse when driving, so copying a few MP3s from my laptop to a memory stick, then plugging it into a cable that connects to the stereo’s auxiliary input, was the simplest way to listen to my own playlists. Simplest to me, that is, because it would seem as laborious as something from The Flintstones to my sisters.
** After that it was Steely Dan’s “The Caves of Altamira,” followed by Talking Heads’ jaunty and strangely apropos “First Week / Last Week… Carefree,” then Steely Dan’s “I Got the News,” which was what made me glance at the stereo to confirm we were listening to a homemade playlist and not an esoteric Sirius XM station. Next came the Doors’ “Break On Through (To the Other Side),” and then Zeppelin interruptus.