From 2011 to 2014, I spent two months of my teenage life on the road. If you were to calculate the time, that’s 10 weeks, 70 days, 1,620 hours, 97,200 minutes, or 5,832,000 seconds (not counting miscellaneous trips from place to place) sitting in the seat of a standard Subaru Impreza or a red Prius. These precarious hours of driving were consumed with homework, eating, or my personal favorite, sleeping. Back and forth from the front porch of my home in West Hartford, Connecticut, to the front porch of Fairfield Prep, I watched my high school years dwindle away as the hours and hours in the car began to deteriorate my very soul. I felt as if the car was Satan's den, a fiery red container that would deal me back pain, car sickness, and during the winter, temperatures that would make my boogers freeze in my nose. These unfortunate encounters are child's play compared to the slick wintery roads of the Merritt Parkway that caused our tires to skid constantly, or the ferocious rain that entrapped our vehicle in such a horrid gale that it seemed as if Poseidon himself were wishing a watery death upon us. I save talk of traffic because I would rather forget the horrible days spent in the seemingly crowded parking lot that was the Merritt(less) Parkway before illustrating them. And to top it all off, I spent every one of those 5,832,000 seconds with my sarcastic, ass-riding, 90-mile-per-hour-driving creator: my father.
Most teenagers would cringe at the very idea of spending an extended period of time each day with their father or mother, so naturally (because I am a teenager) I cringed. I had no desire to spend four years sitting next to the man whose primary job (other than teaching at Fairfield Prep) was to discipline, embarrass, harass, and interrogate me. I add interrogation to that list because being the child of a teacher at your school is equivalent to having a security camera crammed in every nook and cranny of your body. I remember the fond words of my father on a Friday morning before a mixer: "Christian Paul Cashman, I swear to God, if I hear you were grinding on a single girl tonight, your ass is grass and I'm the lawnmower." That night I commenced to grind on every girl with two eyes and a head because any son who receives an order from his father is required to disregard it. Of course, now as a senior, I know grinding is for kids and that a true man can woo a girl with the graceful step of a waltz or the energetic moves that go with that song "Twist and Shout."
My point is not to portray my illicit "sexual" activities as a freshman, but rather to illustrate the relationship my father and I maintained throughout high school. Every ride seemed as if it would end in World War III, whether the fight was about grades, sports, disciplinary issues, or other idiocies. After many years of battling for the win of the argument, I realize that my absolute and utter ignorance was the reason for the controversies that constantly took place. My father would say don't do this, and I would do exactly that. I have allowed myself to reach that stage of life where you look back and say, "Dammit, my old man was right all along."
All the memories of the bad fights and angry moments have disappeared, and the beautiful times have emerged. I recall when on an early fall morning, riding on the highway, my father and I would look up at the overwhelming sunrise that would appear, turn to each other, and smile because we both realized that words could not describe what we were witnessing. I recall the times my father would play the recording of a bell ringing, and I would close my eyes and let the world of serenity that is meditation flow through my body, knowing that directly to my left, my dad was feeling the same thing. I recall the times when my father and I would debate the Gospels, the prophets of the Old Testament, and the philosophers. I recall the times when "Africa" by Toto would come on and my father and I would sing our hearts out because who could hear us but ourselves. I don't think anyone can truly explain the relationship that is held between a father and his son. To this day, I am amazed that in those 1,620 hours, some the fondest memories of my life took place in the gray discolored seat in my father's red Prius.
