The Ride

I wake early in the morning, before Mr. Trizzle because I want to make sure I’m ready when he' leaves.  If I’m ready when he’s leaving, I get a ride to the bus stop.  Mr. Trizzle probably thinks I try to be ready because I’m lazy and don’t want to walk to the bus stop.  That isn’t it at all.  The bus stop is only a few short blocks away, and it’s usually a very pleasant walk.  No, I try to be ready not because I am lazy, but because that short ride is one of my favorite parts of the day.

Three minutes.  That’s about how long it lasts.  But those are three wonderful minutes, in my favorite place, the passenger seat of Mr. Trizzle’s car.  He has a big SUV and I feel special sitting up high above the world, the loud bass from his subwoofers rattling the car and letting everyone know we’re coming.  It’s usually a song we both know, something we can sing along with, riding down the street in our stunna shades, each in our own little worlds right next to each other.

It’s only three minutes, but that’s three minutes of just us, no laptops, no work, no books, nothing.  Just us.  And we talk.  It’s the only conversation likely to happen in the morning. Inside, we’re both rushing around, hurrying to get ready.  Him to not be late, me to get to ride along.  In the car, we’re relaxed and we have time.  Just enough time to say ‘hey, what are you planning for the day?’  Just enough time for a friend.  I’m going to miss those three minutes.