Gyroscope Review 15-3 - Page 32

In the Age of Air Conditioning by Tim Kahl In the age of air conditioning I make my sons ride with the windows down. I am cruel, for sure, demanding they ride with me back to 1972, just the three of us running down the road trying to loosen our load. But instead of seven women on my mind, I am trying to negotiate our way past a deafening semi. A Harley proudly flashes by us in the fast lane. The road crew's jackhammers trill like militant jays. The world around us has erupted into threatening sounds, and I am their cruise director, Julie McCoy, steadily guiding this sweat boat into the thickening porridge of sonic abuse — one more angry Dodge Ramcharger horn honking at a Subaru's swift move. Already a thin layer of dew is growing on their skin, the adhesive that sticks their backs to their shirts. And I will hear about this soon, their complaints will barely edge out the persistent grumble of these highway machines and the wall of air that falls in through the gaps — the symphony I would have missed had we been sealed up in our glass and steel cocoon. I wonder: do we condition the air or does the air condition us? The kids insist that the air go back on, but I blast the Eagles at 15 watts TAKE IT EASY, TAKE IT EASY. I listen to the hum of the tires through it all the way the dog hangs out intent on picking up some strange scent, the hair on its head and snout waving like a freedom flag. Yes, I do believe the children are our future, but only the dog understands the past.
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