Morning air has a distinct, mystical smell. A morning mountain breeze in Utah is far different from the pre-dawn bog of southern Georgia. Early morning suburban Philadelphia has a sacred aroma in my mind. It hovers somewhere between stench and perfume. At that time of day, the summer sun has yet to clock in to its shift of oppressive heat. The smell of dew on the grass lingers in the air, and a cool breeze carries over exhaust from the freeway. It’s a staple of my childhood, that morning air. As I close my eyes and drink in that nostalgia, I can hear a rhythmic click-thunk as car doors are opened and slammed shut. All of a sudden, I’m 15. It’s early August, 2008. No 15-year-old I know wants to be awake at 530 am. Yet here I stand, next to a light blue Mazda MPV minivan, waiting for the sun to rise. Already, I’ve loaded my family's bags into the car, then piled on top of them an assortment of beach-themed gear. Pre-dawn’s light filters in shades of blue into a black, starry sky. Deep in the garage, Orlando “Lonnie” Manai, my father, is rummaging through old tools, looking for bungee cords. He grumbles, “We’ll need those to secure things to the roof that we can’t stuff into the back of the van.”
 

This is all in preparation for the 2hr drive my father and I will take from our home at 514 York Avenue, Lansdale, PA to 2nd and Corinthian, Ocean City, New Jersey. Almost every summer of my adolescence was capped off with a two-week vacation to the Jersey coast for my father’s birthday. He never wanted a gift, just a vacation with his family… and a Key Lime pie. It was an annual event we rarely missed or altered. Nothing could keep my father from the beach for long, not even a rain delay. Well, this particular year, I tried to summon a hurricane. 
 

Despite coming from a stable, loving middle-class family, I was an angry teenager. Maybe “raging” is a more accurate word than angry. At around 12 years old, I started to lash out, and it only intensified as I progressed into young adulthood. I was hateful in my outbursts, injecting chaos into an otherwise ordinary nuclear family. I didn’t know why. Neither did my parents nor my brother. No one knew what to do with me.  There were some attempts at therapy, both individual and family-based, but this only soothed the symptoms for a short while. By the summer of 2008, I was sailing into my adolescent rebellion in full force. I honestly could not recount the details of what preceded this vacation. There were so many ‘events’ at this time in my life that it’s impossible to keep track of them. Slamming doors that rattled our 100 year old home, shouting matches heard down the block, words said that I can never have back, and one unfortunate spitting incident are a taste of what living with teenage me was like. And that’s just what happened inside the house.  So all I can say for certain is that the atmosphere was tense as we loaded up the van, and I was certainly, mostly to blame. 
 

My mother comes out to the van with a mug of coffee for my father. The air grows heavy. My mother and I are still, to this day, very similar people. Which is why the vast majority of my outbursts were arguments with her. It is kind of funny to think of how much energy I expended fighting against someone who really only wanted me to be happy. I don’t think she finds it funny. 

No one speaks to me for most of this moment, with my parents quietly discussing the day's itinerary. Then there is the customary bon voyage: a hug, “drive safe”, “see ya there”, “Love ya, too”. My mother turns to me and smiles. She walks over, hugs me, and says, “I love you, Lou, see you there,” before she heads back inside. I regurgitate the words back to her. The ever present pundits in my head chime in: “She must be pretending that you aren’t angry with each other. She must be pretending that she likes you… maybe that she loves you.” That really pisses me off. 
 

Normally, the whole family (mom, dad, older brother, and I) rode together in one vehicle. Not in the summer of 2008. The reason for the split transport is pretty vague in this memory I’m in because it was pretty vague in 2008 too. My All-American sibling had football practice, so Captain Nick Manai was needed at the school. On a Saturday. In the middle of the summer. Before training camp had even started. BS. We all knew it, but no one had energy to pretend or play nice anymore.  At this point in the morning my father still hasn't spoken to me, other than the few directions on how to pack the vehicle and reminders to bring socks and shoes. A different beach story, from a different time. 
 

 With the van finally loaded, we climb into the captain and co-pilot’s chairs. The light blue mini-van pulls out of the alley. It’s a little after 6am now, a bit behind schedule. The windows are down at first to clear the stale air out of the car. I like closing my eyes and letting the cold wind hit my face. I didn’t know at the time that I was grounding myself, calming my stretched emotions. The cold feels better than a cup of coffee at that moment. My father is wearing his signature scowl, silently navigating the quiet roads of Pennsylvania. Think Robert De Niro. The likeness is uncanny. I keep sneaking glances when I think he won’t notice to see if his expression softens. It doesn’t. It rarely does, but more because that is just his face, and not a reflection of how he’s feeling. RDF (Resting De Niro Face). My father didn’t like to get involved in my battles, and I rarely stepped into the ring with him. Orlando Manai was the patriarch in a Roman Catholic Italian/Irish family, and I was still suspicious of his “business connections”. So he didn’t really do emotions, and I was pretty afraid I might end up ‘sleeping with the fishes’. To this day, I can be timid around my father at times, though that feels a lot more like adoration now than fear. And I am pretty sure he has finally severed all ties to the mafia. 
 

 I feel ashamed, sitting in the beige front seat of the light blue Mazda MPV. I know now that my anger was all too often a mask for feelings I didn't know how to process: fear, grief, sadness, guilt, and shame, to name a few. It was so much easier to be angry than ashamed, and honestly, it felt good. It still does. A Buddhist friend of mine asked me once why people like being angry. She just  couldn’t understand choosing anger over literally anything else. Without thinking, I responded: “It’s the best drug I’ve ever had.” For me, it immediately numbs those other negative emotions. It replaces helplessness with destructive power. After a while, just like any other drug, it became the only way I knew how to respond. However, in this tired, quiet morning drive, I don’t know that yet and I have nothing to rage against. My anger has already been used up the night before. My normal opponent is miles away, and I’m just tired. Without my usual wall of anger, I feel those things I’ve tried to hide from. I want my father to know that I am sorry. I want to talk to him. About nothing and everything. About the Eagles, and the next Wilco show, and the upcoming election, and me. I want him to know I am hurting, and I don’t know why. But I don’t say a word. I just turn back to the wind, focus on the trees rushing by, and stoke my smoldering anger with lies.
 

 This goes on for the next 45 minutes or so. My father is listening to the radio while we still have access to the good Philly stations. We’ll lose them somewhere in South Jersey. I’m half conscious of my surroundings, lost in daydreams of dominating debates. We travel southbound on 476 before taking the exit at Conshohocken to the Schuylkill River Expressway (I-76). This winding highway travels down a scenic riverside drive if you can avoid the daytime traffic, hence our early departure. My father hates traffic, and so do I. Who knows what will happen if we stand still, thinking our own thoughts. 
 

The Schuylkill Expressway cuts through a lush Pennsylvania forest, with glimpses of the river on the left, before emerging into a view of Boat House Row, the Art Museum, and the Philadelphia skyline. The Rocky statue hides on the other side of the museum, facing city hall and the rising sun. This river road then cuts south again, severing Downtown Philly in two, before turning towards the morning Sun, facing the coast. I know every inch of that highway. It’s the city's aorta.  It feels like home.
 

 Around the time we make the turn east to cut across South Philly, my father decides he's done with the radio and asks me to put in one of the CDs he had pre-selected for the drive. Back then, vacation CD selection was critical, as that was your music for the whole trip. My father was always Capo dei Capi when it came to road trip music selections. I flip through a few, then see Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen. It is quite possibly the best classic rock album of all time. If you haven’t heard it yet, I recommend you drop what you are doing and experience the gospel according to Bruce. We listened to a lot of music in my house growing up, but Springsteen was one of a few constants. I had started avoiding things like that as I progressed into my teenage riot, so it had been a while since I listened to the album. That morning, it seems appropriate to listen to New Jersey’s favorite son as we drive across the state. To our right is the South PhillySports complex, home to so many heroes. I put in the CD. It’s 7am. 
 

 In 2020, the Philadelphia radio station WXPN ran a massive, listener-voted countdown of the 2,020 greatest songs that ever were. It was the station’s christmas present to a pandemic weary city. “Thunder Road” was voted the #1 greatest song of all-time. Voted better than any by Beatles, Beethoven, or Bob Dylan. It starts with a piano-harmonica duet that seems almost melancholic, until the last bars of the intro start to pick up. Thunder Road also happens to be the first song on the album Born to Run. That noise fills the inside of the light blue Mazda as it approaches the towers and suspension cables of the Walt Whitman Bridge, our gateway into South Jersey. I don’t notice my smile at first and quickly wipe it away. I hope my father doesn’t notice either. Then comes the iconic first lyrics: “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress sways. Like a vision, she dances across the porch as the radio plays.” I almost miss a quiet mumbling coming from the other side of the car. My dad is singing along, as if the lyrics demand accompaniment. He probably doesn’t even realize it. 
 

It takes me half a second to come out of my sleepy haze, and as I do, the rest of the world melts away. All I want to do is join him. But I won’t. I can’t. I can’t just jump in. What if I sing the wrong lyrics? What if he doesn’t want me to join in? What if I ruin the moment, like I always do? This choir of doubt threatens to pull me under, but my father’s voice climbs just a little bit louder: “Roy Orbison singin’ for the lonely. Hey, that’s me, and I want you only.” I know the next line and it kinda just comes out, soft and timid, afraid of the world: “Don’t turn me home again, I just can’t face myself alone again.” I try to play it off as any casual and aloof teenager would. Then I sneak another glance.
 

I swear I see a smile tug at the edge of my dad’s mouth. We both sing the next couple of lines, slowly walking up the volume until we exclaim together, “SHOW A LITTLE FAITH! There’s magic in the night.” I’m fully smiling now, you can hear it in my voice. I can hear it in his voice, too. “You ain’t a beauty but hey you’re alright. Oh, and that’s alright for me.” 

The song continues to build up steam. We both keep our gaze on the road ahead of us, which already transitioned onto the bridge. The song continues to build, and our voices follow suit: “You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain.” The hair on the back of my neck is raised. “Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain.” I know what is coming, but I have to wait for it, so I follow the song with my dad. “Waste your summer praying in vain, For a saviour to rise from these streets”. It’s a rollercoaster, climbing up to that big drop. “Well now, I'm no hero, that's understood. All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood”. The rhythm of the road is like a timed explosive, counting down. I’m not me anymore.  
 

Then the bomb goes off: “with a chance to make it real somehow, hey what else can we do now, except ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW AND LET THE WIND BLOW BACK YOUR HAIR!” We belt out the line. My arm is pointing towards the sky, my father holding up a triumphant fist. I have no fear clawing at my mind, no shame attaching shackles to my feet. I’m light and I’m present. All of a sudden, in this moment, I am happy.
 

I look over at my dad. He’s still smiling, but it’s different. It’s almost a smirk, like he's  playing one-on-one. And he’s winning. “Well, the night's busting open, These two lanes will take us aaannnyyywhere.” We keep it up, bouncing in and out of key. “We got one last chance to make it real. To trade in these wings on some wheels. Climb in back, heaven's waiting down on the tracks.” I want to roll down my own window and shout it out for the world. But I can’t risk letting the magic escape out of this mini-van. “Oh-oh, come take my hand. We're riding out tonight to case the promised land.” The bridge turns downward, and we start our decent into Jersey. “Lying out there like a killer in the sun. Hey, I know it's late, we can make it if we run.” I can feel the lightning beneath the wheels. “...Sit tight. Take Hold. THUNDER ROOAADDD!”
 

I don’t have to think of the lyrics. They pour out of me, like an unclogged tap that is finally clean. “And I know you're lonely for words that I ain't spoken. TONIGHT WE'LL BE FREE, ALL THE PROMISES 'LL BE BROKEN.” Each heavy yell, we attack. I try to cover up the tears that want to come out. “And in the lonely cool before dawn.” There will be time later, I tell myself. “You hear their engines roaring on.” Just enjoy this moment. It’s not the time to cry. “When you get to the porch they're gone on the wind.” We approach the last verse and then solid ground. “So Mary, climb in…”  
 

Like a wave, the song comes crashing down: “It’s a town for losers, I’M PULLING OUTTA HERE TO WINNNNN!!!!!” I’m red in the face, pushing out the final words. My dad’s voice strains at the high note he can’t quite hit. I beat on my air drums as the saxophone carries us home. We’re both out of breath, but we cross the finish line. Together.

Then, the fading outro gives room for the negative in my head to creep back in. I feel awkward, kind of unsure about all that just happened and what will happen next. What if my father doesn’t feel like I do right now? What if this never happens again? What if? What if? What if? The light blue Mazda has already descended down from the Walt Whitman Bridge. We are in New Jersey. 

The CD clicks over to track 2. The cry of the Big Man’s saxophone welcomes us back into the soulful revival of “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out”. We start singing again, not missing a single beat or a single word. The negative voice retreats, drowned out by a dad and his son. For the next 40 minutes, we cover every second of the 8-track album.
 

The memory fades somewhere along the Atlantic City expressway, halfway to the beach. Before it does, I realize what my dad is saying to me. Not consciously, but I feel it. I know there will eventually be a reckoning. Our concert is not a pardon, and Springsteen offers no true salvation here. No, the redemption will have to come from me. But my dad wanted me to feel loved, I think. I doubt that was his plan at the start of the drive. He had stumbled upon a way to reach his angry kid and he ran with it. I’m glad I followed.   

Breathe in again, and I feel the dry desert air that's 2000 miles from the Walt Whitman Bridge and my dad. I remember the last 20 years that separate me from that car ride. They are plagued with anger and anguish. There’s been a significant portion of those 20 years spent on understanding that side of me, let alone processing it. Some days, I wonder how I’ve made it this far. My mental health seems to have held on by a thread for so long. Anger and shame have always tried to tear me apart. 
 

Then I take a closer look at the thread I’m clinging to. It’s tightly wound together with many different fibers. All different textures, and colors, and lengths. Some are pretty old and frayed, but there are new ones too. There are winter nights with friends huddled together, sharing a cigarette. There are walks with my mother under the wisest oak trees imaginable. There are so many dogs. And there is that car ride. Maybe that fiber is a little thicker than the others, but it is certainly not alone. Those connective strings have held me together all of these years; attached to these people around me. “Show a little faith,” I tell myself when I’m trapped in the dark. There is magic in the night. Especially in the early, early morning, waiting on that pre-dawn light. And maybe that’s alright, for me.