I’m scrunched up in the back seat of my dad’s black Toyota, “The Beast,” as we
all call it. It smells like worn leather and faintly of the mint gum he keeps in the glove
box. My little brother Austin, under one, sits in his car seat next to me, eyes wide as he
takes in the world through the foggy back window. Red leaves drift down from the trees
lining the street. They swirl in the air, little flares of red and gold against a gray sky,
collecting in heaps along the curbs of our neighborhood.
The Beast’s rumbles beneath us, a low roar. My dad has the radio tuned, as
always, to WXRT 93.1, “Chicago’s Finest Rock.” He keeps it at just the right volume,
filling the car with a constant hum of sound without overpowering us. Then, a familiar,
lilting flute sound cuts through the air, followed by the unmistakable thump of the bass.
Sledgehammer. Dad’s face brightens as he turns the volume up just a bit.
And right there, barely noticeable at first, Austin starts to bob his head.
It’s the tiniest movement, in sync with the beat. The drums thump and his little
head dips forward, then back. He doesn’t even seem to know he’s doing it, his eyes are
fixed on something out the window, far-off and serious, but his head can’t resist the
beat.
I turn and stare at him, and he instantly freezes. His head stops mid-bob, all
seriousness, face blank. Austin shifts his gaze away from me, staring pointedly out the
window with a level of indifference that looks almost practiced.
Turning to look out the window, I catch movement with my eye. Austin resumes
his bobbing, more enthusiastically this time, his little head swaying with the bass,
dipping to the words You could have a steam train… if you just lay down your tracks.
His head bobs a little harder now, and I can’t stop grinning.
Show me around your fruit cage… Gabriel sings, and the bass line thumps
around us. Austin’s face stays so serious, but his head dips and rises like he’s totally
under the music’s spell. He’s a rhythm machine, locked in, tiny and solemn, and cool.
The beat pulses under us, each note making the inside of The Beast alive.
Then he spots me looking, and his head halts mid-bob. He goes dead-still, his
face blank and innocent, staring at me with just a hint of suspicion. I stifle a laugh. It’s
like he’s willing himself into statue mode, and he’s weirdly good at it for someone so
little. But I can’t hold back. I burst out laughing, and in the front seat, my dad started
chuckling too, his laughter filling the car.
Austin just stares at us both, bewildered, and I swear his cheeks turn pink. He
keeps up the act, staring blankly out the window, face pressed against the glass like
he’s forgotten all about the music. But as soon as he thinks I’m not looking, his head
starts moving again, just a little, just enough that I know he’s still under Sledgehammer’s
spell.
Dad turns the volume up a notch. The Beast practically vibrates with the bass
line as Sledgehammer moves into its booming crescendo. The sound fills every inch of
the car, and Austin’s head bobs faster now, even though he tries to stay subtle about it.
He can’t help it. The music owns him, and I realize I love it too—this thumping beat
that’s got my little brother dancing without even knowing it.
As the song winds down, the last notes fading, Austin’s head stills as if he’s been
released from some kind of spell. The Beast rumbles forward, turning into the Costco
parking lot. Parking under a tree heavy with red-orange leaves.