Blue Arrangements

photo from Pitchfork

“Feeling Blue?” A road sign selling some sort of pill announces, peeking over a clump of maples beside the Route 71 exit sign. I don’t know how one feels blue–how can one feel a color? I do know I need to get out of this car. The drive home from the Jersey Shore is always miserable. After a day of being swallowed by dry dunes and waves endlessly crashing into the pier, the loose flip-flop waddle back to the car allows my soaked shorts to turn forever damp. The grainy Wall-E towel won’t preserve my trunks after three half-hour tours of the sea. On my boogie board, the best rides are along silver-sky-blue swells that gesture me to a safe, shallow drop-off. I asked my mom to paint my walls sky blue when I was four. I guess I liked how the light broke in the morning. It never gets dark–Andy’s room in Toy Story was a definite inspiration. When it does, my bunk bed without a bottom bunk becomes a cave. Surrounded by Legos and Imaginext figures, I don’t mind the lack of light. Below my bed, my toy story comes to life. Every action figure. Every minifig. They all have lives. Those lives make the crusty drive home worth it. Smushed next to my sister, scrolling on her several feeds, sand dribbling out of my pockets at every speed bump, I maneuver my swim trunks to comfort without flailing my legs into her. In the front, Dad drives while Mom reads the Sunday Times. Usually, Mom stays at home. She isn’t a beach person. A tree hugger since birth, she doesn’t have enough room in her heart to be a beach bum. I understand. I preserve the most room for Legos. I prefer making wonky spaceships and seventy-seven-story skyscrapers without being bound by instruction books. Characters like Jedi Sam, King Bob, and Samurai Steve (my own creations) bring me hours of joy. This drive home isn’t joyful. Dad’s been futzing with the radio since we passed Hoffman’s Ice Cream; who can’t decide between SiriusXM and FM radio? Just put on The Beatles channel, station 18. Now he’s thinking straight and putting in a Silver Jews CD. “It’s their third and best album–American Water. No music like this then or now,” he tells the family. I grab the CD case before it falls out of the cup holder it doesn’t fit in. I love playing with the lyric sheet, but I study the cover instead. 70% is sky blue, with a pink road and a black mountain range against the bottom. It’s simple. I can do this in art class. Dad flips to track six, “This one’s called Blue Arrangements.” I don’t know what the lyrics are about or who the lead singer, David Berman, is, but his tone and technique air out the car, release my seatbelt for added breathability, and my damp shorts stop seeping into the seats. I look back down at the CD, tracing the road with my sand-filled fingertips; when I graze the sky-blue background, I look up to see my bedroom. Samurai Steve and Jedi Bob are in my palm, and a half-broken Star Wars ship is in the other. I place them in the ship and sail around my room along the walls. Avoiding Lego prickles on the floor, I sail until I reach the end of the American Water road. The blue in the ocean reminds Dad of his California roots. My sister connects with blue on her navy foldable balance beam in the living room. Mom grasps blue when choosing between different shades of her favorite gardening hat. I don’t know how to feel blue, but I like being surrounded by it.