Creative Nonfiction | Voice & Character Study
Wilson Speaks is a voice-driven piece that blends internal dialogue, reflection, and narrative to explore identity, control, and perspective. Though creative in form, it reflects a grounded and realistic mental landscape.
The engine settles into its low, throaty idle, and I nudge my gear shift into neutral. I’ve been here before, a prisoner to morning Nashville traffic. My GPS has failed to inform me that the exit to my usual avoidance route is under construction. But I learned when these trips first began to cushion for this. Of all the things that can still light my short fuse, Nashville traffic no longer makes the list.
Judging by the stream of brake lights ahead, I know I’m going to be here a while, so I reach over and grab the stack of papers in the passenger’s seat, patting myself on the back for retaining my old habit of printing papers in a world sold out to e-files. Having something to do in what is now a predictable part of my Nashville trips is crucial to keeping my anxiety at bay.
“No worries,” I say out loud. And for once, I sound fairly convincing. It’s going to be a great day.
“So, why’d you do it?”
There are times when I am so engrossed in the task at hand that the deeper thoughts I shove back in order to streamline my focus start vying for attention and I swear I hear them out loud. I’ve studied my behavior for years and I’ve learned not to respond. I keep my peripheral on the brake lights in front of me, focus on the pages in my hand, and ignore the question I think I’ve just heard while mentally bracing myself for the next intrusive thought.
“Excuse me…I asked you a question?”
I adjust the volume on the radio just to make sure. I smile when my fingers touch the orange ring on the knob. I’m forty-eight with a six-speed Dodge Challenger – a 5.7 Hemi that I’m reviving my younger self with I suppose – buying random little decorative accessories for the interior – impulsive late night Amazon clicks of an overly anxious mind. I look around and take it in – breathe in the truth of my life – that it took me this long to pick out the car I actually wanted and not the mom-bus I’d always needed – but here we are. Thriving instead of surviving.
My car is clean – no French fries hiding in the seats, no surprise suckers, gum, or melted chocolate hiding waiting for me to stick my hand in. My new floor mats shine bright with their copper trim beneath my feet, and the orange and black seat covers make me proud with accomplishment. I smile down at my gear shift cover – so simple, but so true to my fun younger self – a simple little 5.99 Tennessee orange hoodie that I slipped over it just before I pulled out of the driveway three hours ago.
I listen to the hum of the engine, crack my window, and rev the engine just a little…
…watch your RPM’s…shift between two and three … unless you need speed…
My father taught me to drive a stick when I was twelve. He had just bought his first brand new vehicle – financed for so much down and so many years. He drank a lot then and we bonded over hours of Saturday back road drives when drinking and driving was still the norm.
I smile a little at the memory, measure the line ahead for movement. Settle back in with my paper.
“So, why’d you do it?”
Sometimes, I just have to deal with myself and follow the thread – out loud – like a prayer. But this voice is louder than usual. Almost scary.
“Why did I do …what?”
“This? Why did you buy this loud, gas-guzzling one-hundred percent unnecessary machine?”
I snap around toward the empty back seat. Why am I so loud today? I begin mentally grounding myself – five things I can touch, four things I can see, three things I can hear, two things I can smell, one thing I can taste. I grab a stick of gum from the door – muscle memory now – grip the heated steering wheel, stare straight ahead, and start counting brake lights. There must be a formula for measuring Nashville traffic. Lights x miles = time or something…
“Are you going to answer the question or just sit there counting?”
This can’t be happening to me. After all the years of study – the chaos of addiction, recovery, the science, the trauma therapy, the training, the see-saw of the last ten years and now, on a random Tuesday morning sitting here thinking I’ve finally got it all together, my own voice is going to be the tipping point? The thing that finally shoves me right over the edge?
…just follow the thread… I hear my therapist say…it’s just a voice after all…what’s the worst that can happen with a simple conversation…
But this voice is so … different.
“You bought a Challenger – it’s not just a name ya’ know. It’s who I am. It’s what I do.”
I laugh out loud this time. “Ok, that’s it. Whatever…” I sit up straight and grip the steering wheel and look down at my gear shift clothed in the rocky top orange hoodie glaring up at me.
“Yea, it’s me and I’m talking to you. Yes, for real,” a deadpan voice that definitely is not my own.
I thump the hood so it falls around the gear shift knob, just in case.
“That doesn’t bother me. I’ve been sitting here black and bald since 2022.”
The conversation with the salesman replays in my head. “Why do you have 2022 on your lot with only 4000 miles on it. It’s almost 2026. How’s that even possible?” Some vague story about two people leasing it and bringing it back saying it was too much power yada yada yada…usual car salesman stuff. It’s only a 5.7 Hemi…
“How many lights are up there now?”
“Android Auto, turn off the voice in my Challenger…Google? Alexa? Somebody.” I grab the manual out of the glovebox – been meaning to read through it anyway.
“You won’t find your answer there.”
A scene from The Beautiful Mind comforts me. The protagonist wins in the end – walks back into the university with his briefcase and his voices in tow but this time, in full authority over them.
…it’s okay to follow the thread…just don’t DO anything…just talk…
“Ok – you win. I bought it because I like it. That’s it, end of story.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” the voice challenged.
“Look, if you’re going to talk to me and expect me to answer, at least tell me your name.”
“Wilson. Wilson MD.”
“What’s the MD? Now you’re a doctor?”
“What’s funny? You can only be affectionate toward one doctor, eh?”
“Hey, wait a minute. What are you talking about? Who the hell are you anyway? And how do you know…”
“You’re spiraling…”
“No, I’m not. I’m – that’s – you shouldn’t know anything – especially about that…”
“Look, calm down. Breathe in breathe out – count – just like your therapist tells you –
“ -What are you? Why do you know what my therapist tells me?”
“You’re yelling at me.”
I look around at the cars beside me, behind me, ahead of me – roll the window all the way down – let the eight degree cold sting my face and sit in silence, measuring the miles of brake lights ahead. The clock changes – one minute…two…three… After five whole minutes, I roll the window up again.
“You’re spiraling…”
“No, I’m thinking.”
“Same thing – different brand.”
Cars begin to inch forward. I’m thankful for the clutch, the movement – the coordination of it all helps me move forward from this mental madness. The Nashville skyline stables my vision – both eyes firmly fixed on the spires from the Batman building piercing the sky.
“Feel better yet?”
“That’s a hard no.”
“Glad to know you’re still acquainted with honesty.”
“Hey – now you’re pissing me off.”
Did he just cross his arms? No – I shifted. I’m in control. I’m in control. What is this? A physical manifestation of my exhaustion? A hallucination? Oh God – that’s it. My mind has progressed from voices to full out hallucinations. I grab a lower gear, pop the clutch and swiftly switch lanes.
“Ahhh – that old familiar run away. There you are.”
“Shut up. You don’t know me, Wilson. You don’t know anything about me.”
“Just because you say it doesn’t make it so. We both know that part.”
“Hey, I’m sick of you, ok. I’m not the same person –”
“Oh yea? Couldn’t tell that a few months ago.”
“Wilson MD or whoever the hell you are, shut up now. I’m human – something you know nothing about. So, mind your own business.”
“I’m just saying – at some point, you’re going to have to look at it.”
“Android, call my therapist.”
The Batman building to my right now, the bridge ahead – same old landmarks – same existential dread swelling in my gut.
“Look, I don’t know who you are or why you’re here,” I wave my hand around. “But today is not the day. I’ve got meetings. Deadlines. Phone calls, emails, texts –”
“Oh my.”
“Oh, now you’re just going to straight out mock me?”
I switch lanes again. Downshift and grab speed. The engine’s roar settles me.
“Point is, I’ve got a whole lot of responsibilities that require me to appear sane and –
“Why don’t you aim for functional instead? Less pressure – more realistic aim don’t ya think?”
“Stop already!”
“Just sayin…”
“Well, that’s what I’m asking you to stop doing. Stop saying….stuff. Just stop. Where the – is the on off switch with you?” I resist the urge to scream out God’s name – it would be anything but a prayer at this point. Definitely in vain.
The traffic thickens again. I slow down, turn my blinker on to merge. No one will let me in – not in this city – not this time of day. The line of traffic next to me only tightens like my chest now. My blinker ticks like a metronome. Steady. Predicable. Something in the world true to its pattern.
“You’ll have to take it if you want it. You already know this,” Wilson’s voice sounds oddly like my own.
…if your realties start to merge, you need to call someone…
I force my way over.
“I thought you knew how to drive.”
“Hey listen – you can mock me, you can judge me, you can even assassinate my character, ok? I don’t even care. But one thing you will NOT do is insult my driving skills – Wilson. Boundaries – ”
“What are you going to do, take it back?”
“So, are we just going to keep pretending this is normal? Cars don’t talk – and my God why isn’t my phone dialing my therapist?”
“It’s too early that’s why genius. It’s seven a.m. She stopped taking your emergency after hour calls months ago – you know – boundaries and all.”
“Ok. So, you want me to pretend you’re real then? Ok – let’s just go with it then. What do you want?”
I check the rearview half expecting to see blue lights.
“Well, Wilson – WHAT do you want?” I bang on the steering wheel.
“I just want to help you. You’re carrying things that you refuse to acknowledge – so much that you can’t even sit in Nashville traffic without a distraction. Look around. Where’s your peace? Your joy? Your …compassion for others.?
“I’m fine.”
“You’re fine the way your plants are fine after you starve them of water for three weeks. Yea, you’re upright – got a little green on you – but your leaves are dead and falling all over the place. And you know what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t-”
The traffic picks up again. I wipe my face – eyes watering from the cold air I’m trying to ground myself with. A sense of forward motion settles in, and I know the traffic war is over now. I shift gears – the rhythm of the coordination soothing something primal in my brain. The control, the throttle, the timing. Automatics take away too much power. Something I don’t surrender easily – even when it’s an illusion.
Wilson speaks again – even softer now. “Look, let’s start simple. Tell me one true thing.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
Too broad – too much room for exposure. I reach for the safest answer.
“I love this car.”
He laughs. “Good. Now try again.”
I tap my fingers on the wheel. “I’m tired.”
“Good. Keep going.”
“I’m overwhelmed,” it comes out breathy – humble. True.
“I’m shocked.”
I laugh out loud again.
“And I don’t know how I’m supposed to be everywhere I’m supposed to be – not this week, not tomorrow – not even today.”
This one lands heavy. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Why do you do that? Overcommit?”
“I guess it’s my love language. I say yes because I’m hopeful – optimistic. I’m capable. No just feels like failure.”
He doesn’t respond.
“I – I don’t like disappointing people. I’m afraid of disappointing people – even when yes costs me. Even when it means burnout.”
“You know you’re not superhuman, right,” he says.
“Well, that’s debatable,” I laugh.
Silence.
“Yes, I know I don’t have superpowers Wilson.”
“That’s not what your calendar says though,” he says, his tone challenging me.
Ouch.
Traffic is thinning – back to normal speed. I65 stretches out before me, the sun blinding me now. The sunglass compartment falls open just above Wilson – I mean – the gearshift.
“Hey thanks,” I say as I slide them from the compartment.
“Ummmm…. I didn’t do that,” he says.
“Oh, wait – now you’re all humble and stuff? Now I’m supposed to just believe it was coincidence?” I laugh out loud longer that I probably should. My chest releases.
“No coincidences in this life,” he says. “That’s just what letting go looks like. If you just loosen your grip a little, everything you need will come to you.”
My phone dings. Here we go.
I hit ignore on the car’s screen but my grip on the wheel tightens.
“You’re spiraling. Come back. It’s just your daughter checking in saying she made it safely.”
“Thanks Wilson.”
It dings again. Work – a reminder about the meeting I’m already mentally late for even though I’m still an hour ahead of schedule. My chest tightens again – not panic this time though. Just the familiar compression of a life overrun – too much, too soon, too often – too long.
“So, why’d you do it?”
“What Wilson? Do what?”
“Why’d you buy this car? Why the three hour drive to St. Louis to go get it? Why did you empty your savings account that you’ve worked so hard to build – just to buy this car?”
I exhale the heaviness.
“It’s a lot Wilson. It’s just – a lot.”
“Running again, eh?”
“No Wilson, I’m not running.” I checked the mirror again still expecting the lights that once defined my norm.
“Then why are you driving – and living – like you’re being chased?”
I slow down and set the cruise. The lump in my throat won’t go down. The tears begin to fall.
“Look, you can’t outrun you’re schedule. You can’t outrun your expectations. And you can’t outrun your mistakes.
I take the offramp toward the hotel, check the mirror again.
“It’s not blue lights you’re running from this time ya know?”
The engine settles into the low and throaty idle again as I ease into the parking space in front of the hotel conference center.
“So, I ask you one more time before you head off into your day. Why’d you buy the car?”
I treat it like a rhetorical question and laugh at myself as I walk out into the day. As my steps find rhythm on the concrete, I realize I can breath.