Sunset Stereotypical

I crested the knoll of the hill heading out of the cement jungle at about eighty miles per hour. The glance of the sunset hit my iris at a breakneck speed of its' own, actually producing an awareness of just how fast I was going. I slowed.

The mountain range was now real, and before me in majestic fashion. I breathed a sigh of relief. The sight of an expanse of territory has that effect on me these days. While I've seen beautiful alcoves of residential areas here and there in my greater LA travels, I'm very grateful to be on the outskirts of the mammoth place they call the city.

Behind me were the luxury cars with unpronounceable names; the horn honking demanding I pick up the pace as I rounded "their" comfortable hairpin corner; the extra-long limos hogging the road; and the geico hoop-dees all clamoring for their portion of the road, too. It was here, in the beginning stretches of the final miles home that I could relax.

If, of course, you call dodging six lanes of rush hour traffic relaxing.

I began to drink in the landscape ahead of me. The chaparral beckoned me to hide within its' scanty shade. I drove on.

The final five miles required a shift, so I deftly began to merge across the multiple lanes to reach my exit.

That is when I saw it.

And them.

The smoky, charcoal gray, rebuilt 1950 Chevy pickup truck loped along in the right-most lane, unaware that it was out of time and place. I slowed, not knowing the lumbering vehicles' intent. I took note of the word C H E V R O L E T written across the tailgate in dusky red letters.

At the same time, her hair was suddenly caught by the wind from the open windows, and tossed upward against the back pane.

I smiled.

She was sitting next to him. The man I assumed to be her date for the evening.

He was clean cut, and wearing a white short sleeved T-shirt, which only served to fuel the nostalgic appearance. Obviously taken with his passenger, he talked in animated fashion, glancing quickly between her anticipatory eyes and the highway.

The traffic in front of me parted to the left, and I jogged to the right, as the Chevy took the opportunity to shimmy across three lanes, continuing forward into the sunset.

Behind them now, an empty lane in front of me, I watched.

I watched the fresh exchange of getting-to-know-you-days, the continued wind-toss of her hair; his frame jogging about behind the oversized steering wheel ever so slightly as he engaged her attention: the obvious enamoured state of the two love birds.

The sunset glowed about the pickup, hurtling down the highway into the orange horizon, as all other cars on the road seemed to grow dim.

I suddenly became aware that, for the very first time since my arrival in the golden state, I had visually witnessed a decidedly-stereotypical-verbal-hand-me-down of just what, exactly, California dreamin' was.