Rootbound

by Tarah DeWitt

“Would you mind if I play music? That seems like a pleasant enough way to pass the time,” she asks. “Sure,” I reply. I don’t offer to help her figure out radio stations. She whips out her phone and manages to sync it to my Bluetooth immediately. I flinch and prepare for the worst … … And am pleasantly surprised when the first song is by Chris Stapleton. Not my favorite of his, but tolerable at least. The next song throws me off, though. Hootie & the Blowfish? Song number three is, straight up, an oldie: “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac. After that, the chaos continues. I’m subjected to Justin Bieber, followed by George Strait, the Eagles, Katy Perry, Tom Petty, Post Malone, Shania Twain, Queen, then a few in a row that have the most filthy and/or violent lyrics I’ve ever heard (uncensored, and the girl doesn’t even bat an eye) … She mouths “spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me” without so much as a hesitant glance in my direction. It takes more than a song to scandalize me, but the unflinching, relentless randomness of this has heat creeping up my neck. Oh, sure, now we’re back to some country. I can’t take it anymore, and frankly, I’m starting to get a little afraid. “What. Is. This.” I try (and fail) to keep my tone neutral. She is momentarily shocked that I burst our long-standing bubble of silence. “What? It’s Tyler Childers.” “I know who this is. I mean what is this whole goddamn playlist? There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to any of it.” “What do you mean? They’re al...

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