route 70 blues
When I was little, Dad taught us how the highways go: evens from east to west and odds from north to south. Starting up in Boston there's Route 90, all the way to Seattle. And then the 5 from the border at Blaine, through Seattle and down to the border at Chula Vista. Route 80 from New York, Route 70 from Maryland. And so on and so forth.
Route 70 was my favorite. There's an exit in Breezewood, Pennsylvania, and it looks like every exit on the east coast, but it was special to me because it had a McDonalds that Dad was always willing to stop at. Those were the days that you’d get the little slip that would tell you how much to pay based on which exit you were taking and there was a toll booth at Breezewood. I used to get a kick out of telling Dad how much he owed. Dean would never let me put one of those EZ-passes on Baby’s windshield, and now I just keep a couple $20s in the glovebox or pay the bills when they come in the mail. The car’s registered to a real address now.
We spent a lot of time on Route 70. Straight through a couple flyover states and ending in Utah. When Dean and I would play the alphabet game, we’d race to see who could spot the Zanesville, Ohio water tower first to get the Z and win it all. We would bet stupid shit on winning that game: who would have to clean Dad’s Colt next, who would have to cast iron bullets next. Who would have to make the beds at the next motel that would be home. That sort of thing.
But the main thing I remember about Route 70 was the way the sun would shine through the windows of the Impala once we’d get out of the green of the Kansas City suburbs and before we’d get into the Rockies. There was this little stretch where the fields turned tan with dead corn and wheat, and we’d stopped in a town called Burlington to sleep for the night on our way to a case in Moab.
It's a postage stamp town. There was a truck stop called Love’s and a motel named for the town, which was where we’d fueled up and then bedded down. I must’ve been about newly 16, Dean 20 and full of false-bravado. Dad was letting him go off on solo hunts more and more often by then, but he and I were together in the car at the time. I had been a steady passenger in the front seat by that point. And I remember – the sun was shining, and there were no trees to dapple it, and it hit Dean’s face just right. His freckles were finally coming back out in the May warmth and his eyes looked almost clear. He had a little grin on his face, the right side of his mouth pulled up as he nodded along to CCR’s Cosmo’s Factory cassette. Ramble Tamble was the opening track on the B-side. I always bitched about Dean’s music taste, but I didn’t mind the swamp rock so much. And I liked Ramble Tamble, because it reminded me of us. Drifting. A big long guitar solo that made Dean smile and made me think about moving from town to town.
Back then, I hated the way we lived, but I liked that the way we lived was something just Dean and I understood. Something just for us. No matter how many kids I couldn’t make friends with in school, eventually I'd get back in the car with Dean. And down the road we’d go.
In Burlington, Colorado, I knew I was in love with Dean. I knew it in that moment with the sun shining, with Dean's hands tapping on the steering wheel and John Fogerty crooning along in the background. I knew it in the way we’d share the motel bed since Dad only ever got rooms with two queens, and I knew it in the way that Dean would clean the guns next even though he’d spotted the Zanesville water tower first.
I'd wanted to lean over and kiss him. Instead, I'd said, “This is the tape with Up Around the Bend on it, right? I like this one.”
And he'd said: “Sammy, you might have some good music taste after all!” It'd made my chest bloom, and I loved him. I’d hold that inside for another decade before I said anything, and by that point, we were both doomed.
— for @wincestwednesdays "americana"
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I love “we could have been us” because it is, truly, an ending. In that moment, Crowley acknowledges the possibility of them is gone, even if Azirphale were to change his mind. Their songbird has gone silent with the new dawn. There is no going back, only forward, as something else entirely. They could have been two former mid-ranking officers of Heaven and Hell, but Aziraphale the Metatron the plot someone has forced their hand. The only way out, now, is through.
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weird how have got seems like it should be a past form of "get" but in american english is actually equivalent to "have" in the present tense:
what have you got there? -> what do you have there?
i've got rhythm -> i have rhythm
you don't know what you've got till it's gone -> you don't know what you have till it's gone
while got by itself can be either a past form of "get" or a shortened form of have got with the "have" dropped:
i got you, babe -> i've got you -> i have you
i got you! -> what you say once you've caught a toddler you were chasing around saying "i'm gonna get you!" to
so got is a form of the verb "get", but when used as a past participle, it's a form of the verb "have". the past participle of "get" is not got but rather gotten (in american english). and got can only be used as a particle in have got; had got is generally not used (again, in american english; i know it works differently in, e.g., some uk dialects). so:
got: simple past of get, or a shortening of have got (present of have)
have got: present of have
have gotten: present perfect of get
*had got
had gotten: past perfect of get
i'm not sure entirely how this came to be, but i wonder if it's because of the get=acquire and have=possess senses; that is, once you acquire something, you now possess it, so to get something in the past is to have it in the present. but it's complicated by the fact that the have in have got is functioning as an auxiliary used to form a compound verb tense, rather than as the "have" that means "possess", even though the full phrase have got is equivalent to the "have" that means "possess".
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