By Syche Phillips
“I don”t think I”ve ridden in your car in a long time,” my husband Drew remarks casually on a middle-of-the-day trip to Target. And it”s true; usually whenever we go anywhere I make him drive. I like sitting in the passenger seat and commenting on things out the window, and I also like not feeling judged for my driving. Not that he would do that to me.
But I have seen his foot touch the imaginary brake pedal on his side of the car, plenty of times.
“You”re right,” I say, “it has been a while.”
“I forgot how fast you drive.”
What?! I don”t drive fast. I drive the speed limit ? particularly in places where the speed limit is 35, it kills me to watch those cars all cruise along at 30, all in their individual lanes, not giving me a chance to go around them. Don”t they know the light”s going to change and we”re all going to get stuck behind an 18-wheeler?
I put on my left blinker and try to move over so I can turn, but the crazy driver behind me seems intent on edging me out. I speed up a little and manage to squeeze in.
“Just promise me,” he says, as we turn into the Target parking lot and are faced with four speed bumps, “that one day when you have a carseat and a baby in the backseat, you”ll take the speed bumps more gently.”
“Like this?” I ask, slowing to a complete stop in front of one and then very, very carefully guiding the front wheels over, then the back wheels, both pairs in perfect harmony and landing back on the ground with barely a thump. The way I”ve watched the cars in our apartment complex do it when I”m idling behind them, urging them to “Go, please, just go!”
“Yeah, like that,” he says. “That”s actually the way people do it when they care about their car.”
Well, I care about my car! I have been through a lot with this car ? it was my first car, I got it right before my senior year of high school and it”s waited for me all the times I”ve been away: my first year of college when we weren”t allowed to have cars and the three years we lived in New York when it made zero-sense to have a car. Always patiently waiting behind ? and then allowing me to drive it the way I drive it when I come home.
On second thought, maybe it”s not patiently waiting. Maybe it just keeps hoping that this might be the time I don”t come back.
I love you, car. And I promise to take care of you and to treat you better.
I fulfill the first part of my promise when I finally ? finally! ? get around to asking Chuck, my father-in-law, to help me put on the new windshield wipers my brother gave me for Christmas and to change the rear left turn signal, which I”ve noticed has been out.
For how long? Surely that”s the reason I”ve noticed drivers reluctant to let me merge left. They weren”t the unrelenting jerks ? I was the non-signaling lane-changer. Sheepish, I have been trying extra-hard to leave lots of room when I merge, ever since I figured out the problem.
When Chuck pulls out the bulb he turns it toward me so I can see how black it is. “Been out for a long time, hasn”t it?” he asks.
“Um ?” I”m divided between what”s a worse answer, “Yes, quite a while” or “I have no idea.” I settle for “I guess so.”
He”s very non-judgmental though and the rest of the bulb changing passes quickly. And now I have four functioning blinkers and windshield wipers that actually clear everything off the glass, instead of leaving two streaks across my vision, which is nice.
Actually, now that”s done, it”ll probably stop raining in the Bay Area. When this week brings spring and sunny weather, you can thank me! And Chuck of course.
Syche Phillips grew up in Lakeport. Since then she”s lived in Davis, New York City, and San Francisco. She appreciates her roots more than ever. She blogs at www.sychela.com and you can reach her at sychela@gmail.com.
