As much as I love “Star Wars” (episodes 4-6, anyway), if I had to choose which of George Lucas’ films I’d like to have with me on a desert island, I think I’d have to pick “American Graffiti”. Lucas captured that end-of-summertime yearning better than any other film I can think of. Having grown up in a small town, I can certainly relate to the feeling of driving around aimlessly at night, filled with the desperation of hunting down a truly spectacular experience. I’ve always identified with the Richard Dreyfus character. He spends his last night before flying off to college prowling around town with the hope of meeting the mysterious woman in the white T-Bird who he spots momentarily at a red light. As the night progresses and his chances slowly evaporate, his frustration grows.
Most of my summer nights ended with the same empty feeling that accompanied the inability to fill the void with the conquest of love or the completion of some grand journey. My defeat was sealed once I arrived at home where I had to tip-toe nervously up the stairs of my parents’ house. As the stairs were old and creaky, I had learned over time the correct pattern for walking on them so as not to hit the sweet spots on each step that would trigger the squeak alarm and wake my parents. Some steps creaked on the left side and others creaked on the right so I performed a delicate little dance, shoes in hand, deftly maneuvering from one side of the staircase to the other. No matter how many times I shuffled up those stairs without the victory I aimed for at the outset of the evening, I never lost hope in the magic of summer.
As a kid, summertime seemed like this endless entity. Days would creep along, seemingly dragged out by the scorching sun and heat. By the time evening approached, everyone was home from work, summer school, or wherever they hid out all day and the phone calls would commence. Being that this was before Facebook or texting, you had to be glued to the phone to ensure that you didn’t miss out on whatever the evening’s main event was going to be. You always held out hope that the night could take a series of twists and turns, propelling you from yet another mundane night on the town into something that felt truly epic. “American Graffiti” took that ideal and ran with it.
Now that I’m all grown up, summer has lost some of its luster. The time speeds by in the blink of an eye and the most notable thing about this time of year besides the greater amount of daylight hours is that I have to wear short sleeves to work so I don’t melt into a puddle on the subway platform. These days, I’m not looking for grand sweeping epic moments to make myself feel validated and alive. It can happen by lying in the hammock on the weekends staring out at this:
The magic happens as soon as I arrive at this destination
and take my first deep breath of non-citified air. My life no longer has to resemble an old
Bruce Springsteen lyric about heading out to some vague Somewhere Else where I’ll
be free of my demons. I’m not sure if that means I’ve given up on
dreaming big dreams or if I’ve found a different definition of satisfaction. Or
perhaps, I’ve found that peace and contentment is more of an inside job.
