HEAD RUSH

“I have a universe inside me. Where I can go—on spirit guide me. There I can ask—oh—any questions. I get the answers if I listen. I have a healing room inside meeeee….”
—Sinead O’Connor
“The Healing Room”





I’m not Sinead O’Connor; I’m not an Irish folk singer reincarnated. My long slender fingers aren’t ripping up a picture of the Pope. Such craziness—a bug blipping my radar. But I’m not her. My passion differs. I’m holding a personal note in my brain. Call it a head rush. I’m riding the wind, two mini-flags permanently suction-cupped to my scalp. Or are they magnetized? I’m not sure. They flap and flap and flap, changing form—a disoriented parallax—a concession to my husband’s quick getaway.

Why is he on the run when I clearly am not? Is it my curt message received on the dash? Did he get it? Did he even understand it? I’d say he’s made confetti and here’s the parade, but our children are numb by it all. He’s copping the yellow in his rhythm, cruising the California at the three-way. Everyone else is blowing reds, and now, kudos to him, there’s a whole freight train of vehicles barreling down on us. They run the gamut: family, friends, constituents, the liberal minded media—a regular delegation cruising down Woodward.

He’s dyed his hair gunmetal black and splashed a newer, spicier Stetson’s for Men on the nape of his neck. He’s calling his PR man and fiddling with the presets on his FM radio. Country music, how appropriate. He’s never liked it before. Songs about drinking and breaking up. Hey, this is Shania Twain, it’s different. Yes, I duly mock him. And what’s with the black leather gloves? The chauffeur’s cap? He claims to be a different man. You’re not getting away that easy, I tell him. My flag-antennae sense that others are taking my side. Swanson and Son’s compliments have rendered him speechless. My feelers feel the other woman’s scent. I want to be brave. I want to destroy that mental note scuttling inside my brain. I want this head rush to quit. I want to start over.

I half-heartedly apologize. Oh, I’m sorry—did I wreck your concentration? Is that decaf you spilled on your Christian Dior shirt? When did you start drinking coffee anyway? Maybe your latest fling can help you out of your middle-aged crisis. Someone should celebrate your victory. Or will it be another concession speech?

His former secretary, Beth, confided in me that she will no longer dictate memorandums for corporate whores who sip Earl Grey tea and fondle college interns from tall wingback chairs. I ask him, Are you a corporate whore? Are you? I’m sure he’ll explain—cut to the quick—I am not a Republican, nor am I a Democrat—then he’ll hold my gaze and, shifting gears, slide his hand along my thigh and tell me the God awful truth—I’m a compassionate conservative.

Fine. Be noncommittal. But remember: this is no longer your jurisdiction, this is no longer your home. I’m riding the wind. I’m chasing my car. It’s my sanctuary. Where I’m discovered. Where I’ll go. Where I’m going. Two mini-flags suction-cupped to my head. A magnetic field pulling me away.

The reality is this: our intermittent marriage fuels my passion; my husband is not the image he portrays. I love him. I’ll wipe away what the journalist said to me at the Roostertail Fund-raiser. She recommended putting him down like a dog. I’ll have none of that. I’ll have none of this windshield wiper fluid fanning out like gossip in a crowd. I’ll keep these thin dirty streaks to myself. I’ll wash away the bugs. I’m riding the wind, streamlining the fender. I’m waiting for the rainbow to regain its color. There’s beauty beneath it somewhere. I’ll destroy my words, sprinkle them onto the floorboard, terminate the static. Listen, I gesture, Don’t you dare turn away from what I have to say. There’s no need in kissing babies. Or turning back for that matter. Everyone’s acting so glum. Remember: there’s as much talk about me as there is about you. ‘Tailgating’s only illegal,’ they say, ‘if you can’t bring your auto under control.’ But don’t worry Dear, the children took the bus, and even though I’ve turned the ignition, I will never ever leave the garage.