LA to L.A. by Harrison Witt
Back to that same old place…Sweet Home Chicago It comes on, I cry. I cry when I hear “Sweet Home Alabama”; even “Country Roads” does it. They remind me of Mom, even though we lived in Baton Rouge my entire life. She wasn’t much of a crier, more of a belter, especially when we had to remind Neil Young that a Southern man don’t need him around anyhow. Drives to school were defined by the tunes. We listened to “The Star-Spangled Banner” (Whitney’s version, of course) on Fridays, “Born In The USA” on hot days, and “American Pie” in traffic. That song was blissfully hypnotic, but man could it drag. It was post-9/11, but that didn’t mean much to Mom. She burned the CDs in ‘98. Mom loved Clapton, even though he was a Brit. I like how his guitar seems like it has a mouth that opens and releases the perfect sound, and so did she. 2 and 2 is 4, 4 and 2 is 8. It took me a while to realize that he was discussing multiplication, not erroneous addition. Addition is more human: summing things together feels innate, where multiplication seems mystical, transcendent. That’s why I was confused. In class we had learned that “and” prompted multiplication and “by” nudged us towards division in those pesky math-word problems, but I thought Clapton was above the Law. Mom got the problems wrong when she helped me; she was below the Law. It also took me a while to realize that Clapton wasn’t from Chicago. That made three of us. Before “Sweet Home Chicago” ends, I want to think of a story about Mom. A story doesn’t reveal much, but a routine? That’s real. After school, while I did multiplication, she poured herself a glass of brandy. She drank like they say fish do, but I’m skeptical about fish actually ‘drinking’ when they’re down there. During brandy #3, she made scrambled eggs and put 97.1 on the stereo that rested on top of the Microwave (the other essential appliance for when Hot Pockets supplanted scramblys). She would talk over the tunes, telling me about the adventures she had before I was born. Florida, Idaho, Hawaii, California, New York. 44 states. 44! Anywhere I dreamed of going, she’d already been. I mostly felt admiration, and sometimes jealousy, but always like a burden. That she did this before 23, without Grammy and Grampa, was a miraculous feat. I was shocked she didn’t have newspaper articles written about her. I understood–even back then–why I had to settle for Reebok over Jordans, why my birthday parties were in the backyard. She must have spent all her money on those trips. I choose to believe her about those trips. Because, why not? I’ve hit Alabama, Chicago, and am now heading towards Los Angeles to commemorate Joni Mitchell’s “California.” I wish Mom could be in this car to duet with me; I may have underestimated the drive from Alabama to California. It’s worth it though. Because when I have a son, I can tell him about my adventures with the same conviction as Mom. So come home, baby don’t you want to go?
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art | Maggie Brosnan
