Graveyard Drive

I have the windows down on the El Camino. It’s a beautiful day in late November, yet colder than hell. Yet why do I have the windows down? Good question. I’m dressed lightly, in my Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, Aviators perched precariously on my nose, daddy’s dog-tags hanging loosely around my neck, blue jeans, and my favorite work boots. I have the stereo blaring AC/DC, and you can hear Brian Johnson screaming maniacally to a crazed crowd:

“We roll tonight to the guitar bite

Stand up and be counted for what you are about to receive
We are the dealers
We’ll give you everything you need
Hail hail to the good times
Cos rock has got the right of way
We ain’t no legends ain’t no cause
We’re just livin’ for today“

Today, I feel good. I feel right. I feel like a throwback to my outlaw roots. Of course, that brings back memories of long ago happiness under the Texas skies, of where a get together consisted of the parents inviting some of the craziest folks around and drinking some beer while I help with the barbeque, being the wee man I was.

I approach the intersection right next to the cemetary. It’s a rather large plot of land, and to get to the college, I would have to drive past the entire length. I look both ways at the stop sign. I see no one. I press down the accelerator, and turn the wheel hard left, and carry on my way.
I approach the cemetary entrance. But instead of driving past it, I found myself turning left into the entrance, and before I knew it, I was piloting the El Camino into the Land of The Dead.

What the Hell are you doing, man?, I think to myself.

I keep my foot off the gas, and I let the car roll forward. It’s hypnotic, really. The twigs and acorns crunching and cracking underneath the tires, the low rumble of the engine, as if it had a mind of it’s own and was paying respect to these souls that were resting peacefully, and…silence. Absolute silence, save for my breathing. I had turned the stereo off when I turned into the cemetary.

Turn left, I hear a small voice say. So, I turned left. There, the path was covered in pine needles and acorns. I let the El Camino rumble forward quietly, but the sound of cracking twigs and acorns grew immense. I slowed at the next interestion, then I saw that it was muddy, so I went straight.

At the next intersection, I turned left. A runner was making her way through the cemetary away from me, and for a split second I felt like I was in a ’70s stake-out movie. The humorous thought gave me a grin. I turned at the first left I came across. I went about 20 feet, then stopped. I sat there, car idling, contemplating why I was there, because at this point, it still befuddled me. But I got out, El Camino still idling. I walked over to a gravesite with a small tombstone that had an American flag below it and a pink rose above it.

Troop, I thought. I was right.

The headstone read:

S SGT ROBERT M. STRINGFIELD
USMC WORLD WAR II
1917-1999

I kneeled at it, speechless, blank. I didn’t feel anything, namely because I had other thought about him on my mind, such as how he lived his life. For his age, the old man saw alot. He endured a great war, and survived, then proceeded to watch the times change right before his very eyes. He saw history. Did he die peacefully? Did he have a clean conscious? Did he have any secrets or regrets?
None of that mattered anymore. He was now somewhere else.

Somewhere Else.

What is somewhere else, Joseph?

I got back to my feet, and I looked down at SSGT Stringfield’s resting place. “Thank you,” was all I could utter. I get back into the El Camino, shut the door, buckle up, and revved the engine. The old Chevy roared. Slowly, I made my way back outside of the cemetary. Reaching for my collar, I grabbed my Aviator sunglasses and put them back on. I pass through the cemetary gates. Free to do as I please, I turned AC/DC back on, and blared it loud. After all, that is the way AC/DC is meant to be played.

For those about to rock, we salute you
For those about to rock, we salute you

~ by josephshelton on November 27, 2007.