1989 — Night Trips

It was the heat that made everyone do strange things in the summer of 1989. The asphalt of the interstate shimmered like a mirage, and by midnight, the only relief came from the wind whipping through a rolled-down window.

And somewhere on a highway in 1989, a boy stopped being afraid of the dark.

“Trade you,” she said.

The night trips were his secret. Every Friday that summer, he’d drive without a map, chasing the red glow of radio towers or the promise of a 24-hour diner. He never told his friends. They were busy with fireworks and keg stands. Leo was busy memorizing the way streetlights painted the dashboard gold.

“Then let’s fix that,” she said, and she ejected Disintegration from the tape deck. She dug into her duffel bag and pulled out a bootleg cassette with a handwritten label: “The Smiths – Louder Than Bombs (Side A only).” night trips 1989

Tonight, the road was empty except for a semi-truck that looked like a silver whale. He passed a billboard advertising “LaserDiscs: The Future is Here.” He passed a shut-down drive-in where the skeleton of the screen stood against the stars.

He pulled over. The gravel crackled under the tires. It was the heat that made everyone do

For the next three hours, they drove. The Buick ate up the miles. Sam told him about the ocean—how she’d seen it once, in Virginia Beach, and how the water was the color of a black eye at night. Leo told her about his father’s temper, the way it filled the house like gas. They passed a sign that said “Welcome to North Carolina” and neither of them slowed down.