READ BY THE AUTHOR
Everything you need to know about anyone, you can guess belted into the passenger seat of their car.
Are they kind? Do they yield? Will they cut me off? Do they prefer to park far away in order to protect their exterior, or is a shorter walk worth their paint job? Do they prefer to make an end run around traffic last minute, or wait in line? Either way, the world needs all of us—those willing to wait their turn as well as those ready to die trying.
In the back seat of my dad’s hand-me-down Cadillac, a whale of a car he called, “The Blue Hog,” I listened to the steady thump over seams on the road. His firm foot convinced me he was full of magic, and that the new fangled automatic windows only worked when someone called, “abracadabra!” He also swore that he could leap over whole buildings in his magic sandals, but that is a different story. And, truthfully, I had no reason to doubt him.
For my first car, I took over my sister’s hand-me-down, 1979 supposedly “bright blue” Chevy Malibu which leaked so much oil, the dipstick cried out for adjustment each time I got in.
At an assertive, city 25-35 ish, I “stopped and went” from one red light to the next, intuiting which signs were suggestions and which were true safety considerations, though that was never a winning argument when I was pulled over. Still, I have been unflaggingly polite and contrite, as I am whenever I’m caught. For the most part.
This Brooklyn girl can parallel park in less than half a space, on an angle with just enough room past the pole if the ticket gods are feeling generous. It’s unfortunate that this skill is about to become entirely obsolete. Like cursive. Although maybe we can use them both during the promised, coming revolution.
“Keep it smooth,” Dad instructed, taking me onto the precarious FDR Drive for the first time.
“Pay attention. Not too heavy on the gas, easy on the brakes.” My father’s ethos came down to these four principles: Do not be late; avoid traffic and directions at all cost; never step on the brake; and, when in doubt, make it funny. Half stoned, he was rarely right, but managed to avoid any accidents. Automobile ones, anyway.
He was calm. Except when he wasn’t. Through hooded eyes, he mumbled, “Get on. Now.”
“A little faster,” he coached as I forced my way on. All around me cars were beeping frantically.
“Faster,” I heard him say through partially gritted teeth. The Autobahn speeding traffic didn’t appreciate my tricycle pace.
“I am,” I claimed.
“Put your fucking foot on the gas.” His tone was even if not panicked. “Or we are going to die.”
My parents armed me with a AAA card and wished me luck, sending me up the Mass Pike when I went to Brandeis University outside Boston, where I would need to adjust to the new forms of potential death.
“Be careful,” my mother warned. “The only drivers worse than the New Jersey ones are the Boston ones. They make wild assumptions and don’t even look.”
I kept my own counsel and held onto the highway and KROCK on the dial until the static:song ratio became overwhelming and I switched to rummaging through my faux leather suitcase of cassettes, lanes and landscape opening in front of me.
In the harsh winters I learned how to skid gracefully before there were anti lock brakes, steering into the slide instead of the fight, though I relearn this lesson over and over again.
Still cautious, I got better at accelerating. Music pulsed from factory speakers while I drove as I lived—a believer in keeping distance with a preference for the fastest lane when feasible.
I moved to Los Angeles where traffic was more pervasive but lulled into politeness by the lack of humidity. When you don’t have to unfreeze your locks and scrape the windshield, traffic is manageable and the lack of rust makes all cars look collectable.
I lived with two other women on the Wilshire corridor, where I had to valet my 1987 white Chevy Nova, which made me laugh every time I called the doorman and they pulled it in amongst the Jaguars. I enjoyed the ride, learning to grab a friend or two and appreciating the value of singing an angsty and apropos Hotel California, or Jagged Little Pill while we wended our way over the twinkling lights on the Mulholland Pass.
My husband pulled up in his 1993 Toyota Corolla and suggested suburbia, where driving might be easier and parking ample. He was steady and reliable, a model that took a motor oil I had on hand. I hopped right in, knowing I’d found the perfect garage and no matter where we ended up, he’d be my designated driver. We moved home. Or home adjacent.
Audiobooks kept me good company as we drove the 1-4 hours it took to get through the great wall of traffic known as the Long Island Expressway back to see my parents week after week.
Life has put me in jams and cars all over the world. There was an unfortunate wrong turn on a narrow road of the ancient port city of Jaffa. I assure you, if there is one thing that brings humans together, it is the desire to coax someone into the correct spot—previous political or domestic strife momentarily laid aside.
Or, that time I drove on the wrong side of the road, down winding lanes in Cornwall, England, between ancient hedgerows. So what if the paint was scratched on both sides when we returned the car?
Children made me a more thoughtful and protective motorist. Driving became less an expediency and more of a balancing act of mirrors. Fortunately, they were trained on them and not me.
“Say it! Say it!” One of them would scream when it was time to go.
“You say it,” I’d intone.
“Abracadabra!”
With a quick click on a hidden key fob, they got to believe in magic too, even though my father died too soon to experience theirs.
And now I’ve moved to a place where people actually obey the speed laws. I’ve never seen such a thing. If it says 35, people keep to it like it’s a law. Doesn’t matter that no one, not human, cow or duck is on the road.
I got pulled over twice before I got the message. It was time to adjust again, and I never thought I’d enjoy leading a pack of slow moving vehicles over a gorgeous mountain, but I’m getting its zen. After all, even though it’s counterintuitive, a traffic circle is so much more efficient than a light. Over a year in and I barely think about it. Somehow, I’ve switched gears to an enforced slow one that is just my speed.
