I’m driving through the hills of Oakland toward some woods for a hike. Long-time friend named Matt is sitting shotgun and the guy/girl couple I suspect of holding hands are in the backseat. A pinner is rolled and lit, which is the first proper burn cruise in my car (1998 Saab 900 Turbo 2.0, dark metallic green). We meander through an unfamiliar neighborhood and as we return en route toward the regional park Matt calmly asks, “Jordan, are you steering with only two fingers to try and freak me out?” I start to pretend that this question is rhetorical and I want to simply shut up and grin to keep him guessing, but no; I opt for a chuckle plus timid explanation, “Uuhhh no. I just…this is how I drive sometimes. This car drives itself.” Which is a true statement followed by an exaggeration.
We’re single-file, hiking up and down the side of a woodsy hill that almost qualifies as mountain, and I start an exchange amongst the four of us:
“We’re about to double-back up here.”
“What’s double-back mean?”
“You know, like the trail bends around and kinda parallels the part we just walked.”
“Wouldn’t double-back actually mean turning around and walking back on the same portion?”
“No, that’s just going back. Double-back would be turning around a second time.”
“But that’d be the third time on the same stretch: triple-back.”
“No…”
“Uh maybe switchback is what I meant.”
And we intermittently beat the hyphenate “double-back” until minced horsemeat is made. It is humorous. Amid the equine pummeling, there is another exchange:
“Have you been to Fenton’s?”
“Is that a shoe store?”
“No, you’re thinking of Benson’s.”
“Like the Butler?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Remember Brett Butler?”
“The baseball player or the hillbilly comedian lady?”
“Either.”
“The baseball player went to high school in Libertyville, Illinois.”
“Why do you know that?”
“I got stuck in a Wiki hole. So what’s Fenton’s?”
“Ice cream shop.” (defeated sounding)
“Welp, let’s double-back.”
We follow many switchbacks until we have to double-back, rather, return whence we came.
