Alone in the Car

A young man finds himself practicing family dinner conversations in his last place of solitude: the car. Through his self-dialogue, the narrator, Jay copes with things he doesn't truly understand.

The car is our last fortress of solitude. It is where we start and end our trips into collected reality. This is where we can be alone, talk to ourselves, listen to anything we want. I truly love to be in a car alone. Sometimes I crank the music so loud I can’t hear myself sing along. Other times, I play it soft, so I can practice my tone for my imaginary auditions for Broadway. 

On the freeway is the best. I can play the music so loud and sing to my heart’s content. There is no one to hear me and to my knowledge, anyone who sees me doesn’t pay attention. It’s different when I am on a normal street, doing 35 right next to the jackass with the political sticker on his bumper. I don’t really feel like singing then. 

Sometimes I talk when I’m by myself in the car. I make up stories. Mostly I rant. I rant about the bullshit at work and the bullshit of society. It’s almost like practice for when I re-enter reality. I get out all of the jargon I wouldn’t want to bring into an actual conversation. I’ll say things I don’t really mean, but it’s okay, because no one is there. I am all alone in the car. 

I’ll say things like, “Have all of the abortions you want, I don’t care. It’s not my f*****g uterus. You’re in control of your life, do what you want.” and “Everybody in this whole world is going through depression. I’m sick of it. Not everybody is anxious or stressed or overwhelmed. I have never been depressed in my life.” and “F**k fat people.” 

I say this all to the windshield, it is a wonderful audience. Such an excellent listener. I am not sure what prompts these outbursts or the candid expressions of discrimination. My car is where these thoughts start and end. Am I merely playing around with the ideas I am saying or does something deeper in me believe what I am saying? 

I like it best at night. The lights dance through my car, my dashboard looking like a soundboard. I always turn my bass up at night. It is up now as I take myself away from the sanctity of my own home to the reality of life. My mother is hosting dinner for the first time in months. “Everybody is coming!” she reeled to me on the phone last week. I was in my car then. I hate talking on the phone in the car. This is the place I’m supposed to be the most focused. I’m in total command of a 3 ton SUV and you want me to answer my phone and ask me if I’m “free” next Friday? I can’t think of that kind of nonsense while I’m operating a vehicle. Selfish b***h.

Anyway, I told her I would be there. At least I would get to spend the 20 minute ride to her place alone. I have to practice my versions of the conversations which I know will happen in the coming hours. Mom’s version of “Everybody” means I would be seeing her sister, Tabitha - whom the nieces and nephews call simply “Tab”. My cousin Randy and his daughter Violet will be there. Then, of course, my brother.

This is and always has been “Everybody”. Our conversations always start with a bang - we all have so much to tell each other about the positives and hopes we have in our lives. Then, inevitably the conversation shifts to a depressing, mournful tone where we will discuss the falling of society, broken with bits of pleasure by our dinner, then finally, how crappy our lives ultimately are. This was the recipe for Friday night dinner. The only variable that keeps the night slightly fresh is dependent on how much rum my brother will consume. Our last dinner, he drank too much.

I start with my greetings for Mom and Tab, who would no doubt have gotten there an hour early at least, so her and Mom could start the gossip. In a way, I think they are practicing for our conversations later as well.

“Mom!” I say to the windshield with dramatic aplomb. I contort my face and snarl my nose at the nasty apparition of my mother. “Tab!” I let my voice drift and wane like a toddler getting their lollipop taken away. “It is so good to see you both, how long has it been?!” I make a dramatized puking sound after that one. I could tell it was too much. That’s why I practice. I go on: “No, life has been just fine. The work at school has been a little tougher lately, big tests are coming up. You both know how much I hate those things. But I have confidence in the kiddos.” Here is where Tab will no doubt bring up the fact I teach in a school primarily populated by black and people of color. “Oh, come on, Tab. They are just children who deserve the same kinds of education as their colorless brothers and sisters.” Now she will say something positively racist, but with a tone that makes it sound like she is all for my work. I am grateful I am in my car when I blurt out the next bit.

“You know, Tab. I can’t stand the sight of your pig-nosed face any longer. F**k you, and everything you stand for. I have no time to sit here and plead with you that the ‘Negroes’ - your words, you said that at the last dinner - that I teach are magnificent people.” I take my right hand, open-palm, and smack the living christ out of my steering wheel. I am in a residential zone now, I’m not worried about mishandling. I slap at it over and over and with each strike I gasp out some incoherent obscenity. 

I see my mom’s house coming up on the left and decide to circle the neighborhood another time. I’m not ready yet. I practice watching my brother come into her house, reeking of pot and mildew, holding a brown paper sack by the neck. “Hey!” I say like the cliched black men of the mid-2000s. “So good to see you,” I continue, “Where you working now? Oh same place? Wow, you’ve been there a while now. Still good money?” Like I could give a s**t how much money my brother makes at his heating and cooling job he got through an inside connection with his drug dealer. I automatically practice declining his offer for a drink of his Sailor Jerry, which he will pressure me into taking until I finally concede. I can imagine the burnt toast flavor of the drink trickling down my throat. Yuck. Tastes like it were made with pirate’s piss.

Then, here they are: Randy and his Violet - “Oh, how sweet!” I say, pursing my lips and noting the mess of ramen noodle blonde on the baby’s head. “She is just too adorable. And almost a big girl, you’ll be a whole year old so soon!” I practice poking her sweet little nose. Even in a pretend world, I have no reason to be upset with his child. She is lovely for now, until she starts to learn from this buffoon of a person. I can already hear him say the phrase which I have come to despise.

There is mom’s house, on the left again. I stop the car six houses down and let it idle until I park in the street. For a brief moment, I sit there and stare at my most trustworthy friend, the windshield. It knows all of my secrets, all of my lies and worst feelings. It knows how I sing and how I truly see the world. It knows how I feel about this situation tonight. I keep staring as I turn off the lights. Reflected back, in my bestfriend, the windshield, I see a familiar face. It catches me off guard, but then relaxes me. I nod my head, he nods back. I smile, he smiles. I point at him, he returns the gesture and we both say at the same time, “You got this. You practiced. You can handle anything.”

“Mom!” I greet her as she opens the door. I am surprised at how genuine the word came out. It has become a near curse word in recent years, but this time it doesn’t feel so profane. I can hear Tab rattling around in the kitchen and I hear her say in a deep voice, like she has been smoking incessantly since the last time I saw her, “Pat, where would I find a can-opener?” My mom must notice my puzzled face and she says back, “Jay is here.” 

When I’m in my car, my final solace, I can imagine any situation, any scenario. I can practice it until I am prepared enough to follow through with this scenario in reality. For whatever reason, in my 15 years as an adult, I haven’t spent much time living an imagined version of my current place.

Instead of Tab popping out of the kitchen, I see a brutish, viking of a man step into my view. I consider myself tall to the average person. However, this man seemed to be looking straight at the floor when he addressed me. He had a stomach and nasty gray beard to match his size. Though I saw him from a distance, I could already tell he stunk. A mix of old factory and grease.

He smiled at me. His cheeks were so big they hid his eyes and his coffee and smoke-stained teeth filled the rest of his face. I could feel my heart start to parade in my chest. Big booms of the bass drums and a fluttery, anxious melody from the piccollos invaded my thoughts. The room suddenly became too noisy to focus in. I glanced once more at the mammoth, then my mother, and without hesitation said one of my unpracticed lines, “Who the f**k are you?”

“Jay!” My mother says in guffaw, as though I had seen this man a hundred times before. I hear his chuckle, which sounds like the rumble of a bowling ball heading down the lane.

“That’s okay, Patty. The name’s Rick!” He reaches out a large, permanently filthy hand to which I am obliged to take. He smiles that stupid big grin again and I can’t contain my disdain for this man. I can practice getting used to people like Tab and Randy and mother, but not a fool like this. I start to say to my mom that I must be leaving and that I hope she has a wonderful dinner, but since I wasn’t able to practice and now my cues are all off, I instead stand in the doorway of mom’s house in silence. Utter silence. I keep my coat on. It’s freezing now. I watch Tab come into the house. I couldn’t think of a word to say to her. The routine is off. How could I be so wrong with my calculations? I practiced dinner every time I came here. The conversations, my tone of voice, I watched how much information I would give away about myself, I considered what I told them about my job and my personal life beforehand. With this new person, if he could even be called a person, he might bring up questions that I had never considered. I needed more time to practice. I needed a way out of there. Now.

“I have to go to the store really quickly does anybody need anything?” The statement and question came out in a collage of words, I don’t think any of which were discernible from the rest. I was out of the house and back in my car before I let out my breath. Without looking back at mom’s house, I started my solitude and made my way out of the suburb.

In my car, I scream. I don’t say any words, save for a few “F***s” here and there. I slap the steering wheel and death grip it until my hands feel like they will burst. I pull into the parking lot of a nearby corner store. I start to practice again. This time with a new creature in mind. I imagine Chuck asking what my work is like and if I like it and if I plan to do something else with my life. Then I reconsider this person. I judge him based on his looks. Then I imagine him asking me something terribly stupid like what my favorite color is and how many O’reos I can eat in five minutes. I feel bad. My head falls to the bruised and beaten steering wheel. I let my eyes rest.

By now, my brother and Randy and Violet are all there, obviously talking about me and my obscene outburst. Tab is judging me. I can feel it. My brother is hopefully drunk. Violet is still innocent. I try to practice this new scene. I start with mom asking if I am “Okay” which I have been around long enough to realize that “Okay” is the simplest form of “F**k off” a person can say. 

“How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.” 

This is actually a code for another type of interaction. One that I find much more to the point and honest, but in no way realistic. 

“I don’t care enough about you to really help, but I’ll be polite.”

“F**k off.”

Of course I don’t want the world to admit to this realization, but there are times when I cannot understand the reason behind “small talk”. I feel myself losing control of my imaginary situation. Attempting to take a few deep breaths and realize this dinner is not the apocalypse, nor will it have any lasting effect on the casual conversations people have with each other every day.

I notice my mom walking towards my car; I think it’s one of my practice apparitions come to life. But there she is. She taps the glass, gingerly and mindful of the situation. Kudos to you, mom. I nod towards the passenger's seat and unlock the door. She gets inside where I brace myself for a scolding. Whatever age I am, I always feel like when I am alone with my mother she will begin to scold me. 

“I’m really sorry about that,” she says, not looking in my direction, “Chuck is a friend of mine, I invited him to dinner at the last minute. You think he and I are together - we’re not. He’s new to work and the area. I just wanted to be friendly.” 

I can tell I am staring at her with obvious confusion, but even I am perplexed by my confusion at this point. So it’s no big deal, right? He is “just a friend” to mom. Mom continues to plead with me. I feel like an idiot, like I have escalated a situation into something that could have been easily handled with the few words my mother just said to me. I start to apologize.

“I’m sorry, mom. I just feel like I’m losing it sometimes.” And she rubs my back and accepts without question. 

“I’ll see you back at the house. Take your time.” Mom kisses my cheek and exits the car. I don’t watch her walk away. 

I don’t let much time pass between our talk and coming back to the house. I don’t practice anymore. Mom’s house is on the right side now. I park and see my bestfriend when I shut the lights off. I open the door without knocking, see “Everybody” seated at the empty dining room table, save for a few drinks.

“Look who it is,” Tab says, and I can see a slight shake of her head that matches her drooping mouth and dreary eyes. Chuck lifts his head to look at me just once before returning his gaze to his size 20-something feet. 

“Everybody alright?” I ask, trying not to sound like my entire world hasn’t been shaken, because in reality, it hasn’t been shaken at all. Maybe slightly disturbed at the most. Everybody at the table responds with nods and positive gestures. Randy says to me,

“How are you doing?”

“I’m okay.”