Song of the Day: Living under the fear 'til nothing else remains.

It is sometime after midnight, somewhere between Little Rock and Salem Arkansas. I am wearing my new hideous green “Arkansas 4-H” T-shirt, sitting in the back seat of a car headed northward.

To my left is James Bancroft, my roomie for the past three days and nights at the Arkansas 4-H convention. He had curled his hair each night, having brought both a curling iron and styling mousse on our little trip. He was gay. I didn’t know it yet.

We are both still wearing the leis given to us at the dance that served as the closing ceremonies.

The driver is the head 4-H leader for our county. To her right are two Japanese exchange student girls. I think they are slightly younger than us. They appear to speak absolutely no English. Occasionally they peer back at us and jabber animatedly to each other. They are no doubt impressed with our studly American manliness and plotting how to manipulate us into marrying them so they don’t have to return to the Land of the Rising Sun.

Driver allows James to pop a tape into the radio. It is a mix tape we have made at the convention. Unfortunately, it was from two different single-deck tape players. Integrated, two-deckers are still in the reach of only the wealthy. It crackles and hisses and generally sounds like frying bacon. Between the popping of the cooking sliced pork products, however, a rap song spits out “L-L-L-L-L-L-Larry.” It came off some movie soundtrack belonging to Mr. Bancroft. We think it’s brilliant.

Halfway through, Driver has had enough of the hickory-smoked pig emanating from her speakers and pops out the tape. “I can listen to any kind of music, as long as it’s clear,” she explains. “But that static is giving me a headache.”

She fiddles with the tune knob until we find a decent rock station. “Hello Again” by the Cars comes on. Mr. Bancroft and I talk to each other while it plays. The girls peer at us in unison, turn back around, and yammer on.

A few songs later, this song comes on.



Mr. Bancroft and I sing along, loudly and not particularly trying to stay on key. The girls stare incredulously, then cover their little Japanese mouths with their little Japanese hands and giggle uncontrollably. I wonder if they understand how badly we are singing. They find us hilarious, and no doubt make little checkmarks in their heads on the lists that read “Handsome. American. Funny.”

Definitely husband material we are.

Eventually, the radio station peters out and the night is over. We never see the two Japanese girls again.