I was driving back from Philly on Monday after dropping Emma off at school. Was a couple hours in when I hit the stretch of turnkpike that cuts through the mountains. Where it’s nothin’ but up and down big hills and forest on either side … for miles and miles. 

I’m ok driving as long as I can see ‘civilization’ on either side of me (i.e. houses, farms, buildings, roads, etc.). But when it’s just me and the hills and forest … it effs me up sometimes. For real. Like panic attack stuff. 

Reminds of a nightmare I had as a kid … where I was in a car hurtling down this large mountain straightaway, darkness on either side. And as I’m descending I can see this big hill in front of me that climbs steeper and steeper and steeper until it’s pitching 90 degrees straight into the air before it just … ends. In the nightmare I remember knowing I didn’t have enough speed to climb the hill, and no way to stop. I knew I was only gonna get so far and then just … drop. I woke up right before free falling. I can still picture the dream to this day.

On Monday when I hit that three-lane mountain stretch on the turnkpike, 18-wheelers whizzing past me on both sides, I felt myself starting to unravel. My mind began racing, my heart started pounding, and before I knew it, my hands were sweating on the wheel. I recognized the feeling. Years ago while driving home through the mountains at night, I got so overwhelmed I had to pull over and have Peter drive the rest of the way. 

On Monday, though, I had no co-pilot. 

I kick the air conditioning on full blast. Pull into the far right line and try and draft behind the slower-moving semis. Turn on the radio to try and keep myself together … anything I can think of to try and stave off a full-blown panic attack. 

My bluetooth catches a playlist from my phone. 

“Learning to Fly,” by Tom Petty kicks on. 

As my eyes scan the information on the screen, I say automatically … 

 “Save me, Tom Petty.” 

Which was a line … from a song that Jesse Lowry wrote when we were in a band together in the mid-1990’s. 

A song that I had not thought of — let alone heard — in, I dunno, 25 years. 

And, autonomically … I start singing … 

“Save me Tom Petty … you got me goin’ home in spite of the weather … make it all better, as you show me who you are.” 

Under attack by evil forces, my mind reached for the best weapon it could find.

That song. 

I sang it without a conscious thought. My mind just put it on my tongue.

Twenty-five words, from 25 years ago, that could not have been more precisely suited to my present situation. 

A tourniquet to staunch my bleeding. 

And when my conscious self registered not just the lyric, but its substance, I yelled, “Fuck yes!” … as if I had just seen the goddamn calvary coming over the hill. 

“Save me, Tom Petty …” 

I sang it as a prayer. 

My hands strangling the wheel, I found the first verse. 

“Take me I’m ready. You had me rollin’ when my roller was broken. Take me home steady … as you show me who you are.” 

Hugging the far right lane, crawling up and down hills, pumping my breaks on the descent so I could claim some measure of control over my spiraling situation, I was rollin’ with a busted roller. Just trying to make it home.

In immediate supplication to whatever higher power might be taking calls on the afternoon shift. 

I quickly shut off the radio.

The chorus … 

“Sing all the songs my minstrels taught you … bang on the door, I’ll let you in ….”

Took the song’s advice. Sang and banged with whatever I had in my tank.

“ … make it all better.”

Over … and … over … everything I could remember of it … as an incantation. 

“How about a kiss for the poor man? Can’t you hear the sympathy in his beg?” 

Yes.

“I must admit my love is strong … locked in this chest and woven with a tear.” 

Over … and over … and over … and over … and over ….

Jesse was so prolific in his songwriting in our band days. When it came to lyrics, he was like a wind chime (as I heard Tom Wolfe once described). As if he was just channeling what the universe was giving him. I don’t think he intended the lyrics to ‘mean’ anything other than (perfectly) communing with the music he wrote. 

In the moment, though, they meant everything I needed them to mean …. were both my sword and shield. 

I don’t even remember the song’s name. I do remember I loved playing it. I think we all did. It started with a simple groove, funky and understated. Began quiet. We knew where it wanted to go, though. The chorus hit like a punch in the face. After which we brought it back down to a barely contained simmer on the second verse. And in the end for no good reason the song broke into a 7/8-5/8 crescendoing instrumental riff until the battle was won. 

When he wrote that song 25 years ago, he had no idea that he’d written a gift for his drummer’s future self. 

The universe did, though. And you won’t convince me otherwise. 

To be opened at exactly 2:12 p.m. in the afternoon on Monday, November 27, 2023.

Music, you know? 

I crawled and crawled (banged and banged) until I finally saw signs for the next rest stop and pulled my sorry ass over. Eased myself into an empty spot. Bowed my head on the wheel before exiting my car. 

Went inside, splashed some water on my face. Grabbed a Cherry Coke and some Aleve. Sat down in a chair with my back to the window to shield me from all those 18-wheelers speeding past. 

Was in no great hurry to get back in the car. 

But knew I had no choice. 

Let the winter air register on my face as I backwashed through the parking lot. Deep breathed as I turned the key. Found a break between the whizzing semis and limped back on the turnkpike. As I hugged the far right lane I found that nothing had changed. 

It was all there waiting for me. 

The hills. The forest. The wave I couldn’t control, licking its lips. Over a hundred miles left to go. 

I sang a couple more choruses, but my mind knew that the elixer wasn’t going to last me the rest of the way. But then a sign came into view … next exit two miles. I neither knew nor cared where it headed. I’d figure it out. The off-ramp received me like a warm blanket. Houses here and there. Buildings. Precious few 18-wheelers. Civilization. I knew I’d be fine. 

I let Tom Petty — and the “you” who had showed me who it was — know that I could take it from here.

Ended up taking bunch of back roads the long way home the last 120 miles … in 7/8 and 5/8 time, so to speak.

Got up the next morning and sent the most heartfelt capitol “T” Thank You I’d written in a long time. 

To let Jesse know that a song he’d written 25 years ago had pretty much saved me. For real. 

And that both his drummer and Tom Petty had listened well.