A Life Without Cars
September 8th, 2009
I’m not going where the road takes me. I’m going where the car takes me.
Or wherever you need to go. I don’t mind.
I’ve chosen a life without cars. And, certainly, the feeling is mutual.
At some momentous yet indefinable point in time, we make a choice: car or no car? Driver or passenger? Mr. Pop and I chose the life of the passenger. I passenge. A real verb isn’t even necessary for what we passengers do. We will settle for whatever state of being verb you have laying around. Whenever you have time.
Cars and I had a great thing while it lasted.
Our mother had a red Pontiac Firebird with a T-top. I was four, and this car, to me, at the time, was as magical as a bedazzled unicorn. I don’t remember if the signature firebird graphic was splayed on the hood in all its feathered glory. The novelty of the T-top was all that mattered to me-probably as much as anything could matter to a four-year-old. But it was short-lived. Our uncle and our father took turns suping the car up, racing it, running it into the ground, and wrapping it around street signs. Then she got the maroon LeBaron: a car nobody wanted to race.
There was the Firebird, and there was also the Chevy Citation-a hatchbacked pariah in eggplant. Our family shunned it, but I liked it. To me, it was the futuristic, muppet-shaped vessel in which I started to make sense of things. We moved out of our apartment-my first home-with that car. A giant plastic bag full of my most prized stuffed animals slid across the vinyl bench seats with me on our final trip from our apartment at Olympic Gardens. And that was that.
Sometime circa 1984, I remember one night Mom and I were in the Citation, and Owner of a Lonely Heart was playing. She usually listened to Motown. The car stopped, and I stared at that entrancing billboard near our apartment. It had a rainbow-striped apple with a bite taken out of it. The Chevy, Yes, and an early Mac logo. I didn’t know it, but I was in the middle of a future 80’s flashback. If I were to re-write history for the unwatchably boring movie about my life, the only thing I’d add to the image would be some Osh Kosh B’Gosh overalls.
Of the other cars in my life-and there were many-none were quite like the Citation. There was our father’s Camaro, which, as you know, is a practical, family vehicle. Every time all three of us rode in the car together, I was relegated to the bump between the back seats. I found that the bucket seats in the back of a Camaro do not provide adequate leg room for an average-sized fourth-grader. I was also in charge of re-attaching the ceiling fabric with thumbtacks whenever it started to droop down, which was often.
Years later, our first taste of unsupervised freedom came in the form of my brother’s first car, the white Ford Tempo. My In Utero tape was stolen out of that car, and the whole matter is still a sore subject for me. Then there was Melissa’s grey Ford Escort hatchback. This car had at least one mix tape (probably several tapes, actually) created and named in its honor, so all the tapes even out.
After a brief stint as driver, I quickly resumed my passenger status. I don’t know if driving and I will ever meet again. It may be too late for us. Next time I see driving, driving may snub me and pretend we’re strangers again. It’s sad, too. Sad in the way that it’s sad to watch a 30-something learn to ride a bike. Where where the parents? Honestly.
I make a good road trip mix CD, and I’ll talk incessantly on long trips so you stay awake. I’m good car company. I’ll tell you that you weren’t at fault when someone flips you off, even if you were. But my driving future remains to be seen. Until then, I’d rather burden drivers with the crushing responsibility of holding my life in their hands.
The Life and Times of One Statistic
April 24th, 2009
A Dramatic Blaze of Pyrotechnic, Power-Ballad Glory
Or a Kazoo Playing Taps
Today is Friday, April 24, 2009.
It has been precisely two days since I’ve been passive aggressively laid off my current part-time position. It certainly was not the glorious Fireworks-and-Bengal-Tigers display I was hoping for. It felt more like sputtering out of fuel while I was already in last place. And then, as I gulped back a few sobs, I did a sad victory lap which I didn’t finish because it started raining and everyone left.
Not that my job was in any way comparable to some fictitious drag race. If I had to back it up and choose a better metaphor, I’d say it was akin to a game of hot potato, and not everyone realized we were playing.
How could it be compared to throwing baked vegetables in a circle? Here’s how.
I worked for the company full-time until July 2008 when I had “had it” - the details of which will be revealed in my upcoming press release, “This Is How Over It I Am.” I definitely wanted to stick it to them - epically. I did so by giving them 6 weeks worth of notice, in which time I read every resume and conducted every interview for my job. I even gave them a solid, genuine recommendation.
I showed them.
After my self-imposed time limit, I conducted a few weeks of runoff, unsuccessful freelancing for them that ended in a brief yet pointedly bitchy exchange of emailed misunderstandings.
But wait - there’s more:
Without my meddling, the business took a swift and miscalculated turn, crashed through a brick wall and landed belly-up in a lake full of crocodiles. 90% of my former coworkers were civilian casualties, yet the company heroically soldiered on.
I ran into my bosses at a going away party for one of the last employees standing who decided to leave on her own volition. She thought it best to put the animal to sleep rather than watch it wriggle and bleed out in the trap.
A few moments of chatting and a couple of days after the chance meeting, I received an entirely expected phone call asking for some part time help.
Just a reminder: everyone has her price. And in case we’ve never met, it will help to know that I’m a masochist with something to prove, and I have an impressive ability to idealize difficult situations and people.
I worked there 3 days a week and successfully ignored the old antics that quickly came back in full effect. I adopted a “not my problem” attitude as I had seen others do. “It’s just a phase” I said as I watched my superiors hold the business underwater and shake it by the neck until the bubbles stopped coming up. Everything was temporarily peachy and copacetic for a few weeks of glorious paychecks.
Wednesday, however, I was told, “I think we’re good for this week.” And I, somehow, was surprised.
This most recent part time employment with the company, mind you, was based mostly upon ghost writing for their Boston Terrier.
Yes, that’s what I said. I was not writing as a dog in a dog voice, whatever that is, but as a character who I accidentally invented that manifested itself in their actual dog. I was the appointed court jester for a while, writing witty, topical, completely unnecessary commentary on a blog, Twitter and Facebook.
Here, look.
The universe discovered this hilarious loophole - the fact that I was being paid (and strongly encouraged) to D around on social networks on the job. And, sadly, my gravy train took the express route and quickly exhausted its funding.
It may sound ridiculous - mostly because it is - but it’s either that or this, which is the first thing I found today on Craigslist:
Website Coordinator & Content Writer - Mustang Enthusiast
The horse or the car? Does it matter?
That single post extinguished my hope and incentive for the day’s job searching. It made abundantly clear what kind of soul-crushing journey awaits. I saw the middle - the part where you are unmistakably reminded that you have no marketable skills, no niche appeal and no desire to start from scratch.
The post actually refers to the car. And oddly, the job description sounds like something I’d be interested in and qualified for - minus the Mustang enthusiasm.
In a world where Americanmuscle.com, an internet retail business exclusively devoted to selling parts for Ford Mustangs, not only exists but is growing and seeking employees, I’m forced to consider the possibility that this whole recession thing is just a thinly-veiled excuse for incompetence. I think we can all take a cue from the 7+ year-old business and say, “Prudent spending be damned!”
How do you recover from something like that? And on a gorgeous, 70º and sunny day like today?
I guess a better question is, when is it NOT a good time to prematurely drown your sorrows in a large Rita’s gelato? Never, that’s when.
A Eulogy for Ol’ Bessy
August 11th, 2008
A Eulogy for Ol’ Bessy
If you are even somewhat like me – more than just being human, less than sharing a birthday - I would presumptuously say that your fondest memories took place in time you were almost squatting. Not that time when you were actually squatting and called it “finding yourself.” But the time where you voluntarily lived – and paid upwards of $100 a month to live – in a crumbling hovel that stank of Raid, and you spent your sticky days watching the cats fillet mice on your kitchen floor and play doubles with the roaches. Years later, these days of overflowing litter boxes, lovable neighborhood tramps and police gunfire just outside your kitchen window will be the days that you – like me – will affectionately refer to as “the best time of your life.” And for that, you – like me – will rightfully be called an asshole.
At a party one day, you will fondly rehash the story about the two winters in a row when you had no heat whatsoever and slept in a winter coat and hat. When you do this, and you certainly will, your self from the past will emerge from the ether and strangle you with a frostbitten hand. This Ghost from Apartments Past will sit you down for a long overdue reminder about the time the building’s supports caved on themselves and the whole structure wobbled under the weight of raw timber and 4 x 4s. For some reason the building was never condemned, yet the men who were fixing the porch were whisked away by INS, leaving behind only a cowboy hat as a bittersweet souvenir. Remember the bathroom we had to close off because the beams in the ceiling busted through the plaster and into the shower? Remember the trashcan full of maggots and how you haven’t been able to look at white rice the same way ever since? That won’t be enough, either, and your ghost will have to bring out a memory you just can’t repress: the day the gods played Jenga with your sanity.
In June of 2005, the Weather Channel calmly warmed us that summer was about to swiftly and unmercifully beat spring to death with its own umbrella and galoshes. Temperatures were about to soar into the mid thousands with 300% humidity with a chance of locusts. The rapture was imminent, and all babies, pets and grandparents would surely perish of heat stroke. As the previous summer was one of sweat-soaked nights and dangerous dehydration, I promised myself I wouldn’t almost die in that apartment again. I would either move to Canada or save up for AC. Instead, I became the incredibly grateful benefactor of a free air conditioner from the 1960’s that my friend found in his former roommate’s belongings. Back then they made the appliances entirely of lead and melted-down anvils. But for the sweet, Freon coolness, I tolerated the filter’s rancid mildew stench along with the bonus mildew it created by leaking creepy water inside and onto the wood floor. I eventually embraced the daily bouts of debilitating congestion – the smell no longer bothered me – and the ominous rattling of the ancient device became a lullaby.
I wasn’t ashamed of Ol’ Bessy. Even though it pre-dated the plastic accordions that would have helped fit her snugly into the window, I wasn’t too proud to duct tape a big piece of vinyl shower curtain to seal the gap and bottle up my bought, stale air. The colorful elephants and seals on the plastic patch only added to my newfound cheeriness. Gone were the days of cold showers before bed and hoping for the best. Also, my chances of waking up on fire had decreased significantly, going from probable spontaneous combustion to the slight possibility of an electrical malfunction. Should the whole contraption slip from its station, there was a 60% chance it would teeter outside, not inside to crush my skull. The odds were in my favor, and my spirit was not to be shook by meteorologists and their empty threats. I also wasn’t intimidated by my roommates’ sleeker, energy efficient air conditioners with their fancy white plastic and LED displays. Bessy had character – a certain quality that recalled a more romantic, simpler time much in the same way a collector may purchase an antique fan and display it on a shelf next to a stainless steel blender from the 50’s. And for a time, I managed to pass off the smells-like-burnt-hair-o-matic as an aesthetic choice.
As with most choices based on lies and self-deception, I did my best ostrich impression when it came to those nagging thoughts of reason and glaring flaws in logic. I planted my head firmly into the cool, cool sand when I realized that I had successfully brought the apartment’s air conditioner count to 3. If we were to break down the kilowatt-hours, Ol’ Bessy would have counted as 4 units on her own. Part of our deal with the landlord was that electricity would be a flat rate of $25 a head – a small consolation prize for the stampedes of rats that trampled through the walls – and no one much cared at the time if we were depleting the ozone when the air inside is so refreshing. To us, in the moment, we saw no immediate cause for alarm.
One of the hottest nights of the year to date, sometime in mid-July, we all retired to our cooled chambers, closing ourselves off in our hermetically sealed bedrooms. Breathing in the sweet refrigerant, I actually felt goosebumps on my arms that were not sweat-induced. I lulled off into a pleasant, unsuspecting sleep. I don’t remember waking up a few hours later. There was no transition – I was dreaming, then sitting straight up with a nauseating feeling of molten lava pouring over my shoulders and coating my skin. It’s very, very quiet. The only source of light emanated from my cell phone, which told me it was 4:55AM. Several, possibly dozens of things had happened around 4:52AM that had been in the works for weeks since Ol’ Bessy came on the scene. But at 4:55am that day, I became acutely aware of a few things.
First: circuits overload. What with my pre-war machinery guzzling away at the already stressed power source, probably sending sparks flying from the fuse box, it’s no wonder.
Second: we live in a building that used to be a tenement. We initially thought it rather clever that each bedroom door had its own set of deadbolt locks and a painted-over doorbell, but it was not until we all woke up, gulping for air, looking for a fuse box, did all the very obvious pieces come together. Climbing over each other, throwing aside piles of clothes, moving couches, trying to rip open doors that had never been opened – we couldn’t find the fuse box. An emergency call to the landlord revealed a third fact that further complicated our current Hell on Earth. The fuse box, of course, was at a remote location, and he would have to flip the switches himself. Later.
A half hour later, a few hours later, whatever - it may as well be a month. Without electricity there was no hope – not even the half-broken box fan could save us. The hot air stood still, smothering us with its itchy wool blankets. We were faced with panting cats and the grim reality that this may actually be the end. We all patiently took turns taking cold showers. By then it was nearly 6, and under the circumstances, I didn’t mind being an hour early for work. With every passing minute it grew hotter outside, and the chances of me blacking out during the 10-block uphill walk were only going up. I kissed my cat on the head and left her in the sweaty disaster, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time we saw each other. And I also hoped in the meantime that she wouldn’t hate-pee on my bed for leaving her to fend for herself. But I wouldn’t have blamed her. I would do the same.
With nothing but oppressive humidity and tumbleweed to keep me company on my slow procession up the incline, my only solace was the vague promise of air conditioning in the 24-hour Fresh Grocer 4 blocks away. The 7-11 was a closer option, but that place was frightening at 2pm, and I wasn’t about to find out what it looked like at this hour. On the final 10-yard stretch, I restrained myself from sprinting to the grocery store’s automatic doors. Reuniting with the smell of Freon was like the signature cologne of a long-lost lover. With a rush of the icy breeze, my other senses were fully engaged and amplified. Oh, the rows of apples and nectarines were beautiful, the fluorescent lights were brilliant, and the magazine selection was the perfect excuse to loiter. Vegetarian Times, ReadyMade, Writer’s Digest – I was in the waiting room of heaven’s farmer’s market co-op. This would be my own free library until I was made uncomfortable enough to leave. But then I looked up to find myself in line, paying eight dollars for a copy of Adbusters with nowhere left to go but through the business end of the store. My shame prevented me from going back inside, and rather than injure my pride in a place where no one knew me or would wonder why I was window shopping for frozen vegetables at 6:30am, I opted to sauté myself out on Walnut Street.
The cold that was still clinging to my arms quickly evaporated, and I could smell the chlorine from the Olympic sized pool inside UPenn’s gymnasium wafted tauntingly from the windows as I limped past. And I got to the giant doors of my work only to find I was the first one there. A few frantic phone calls later, peering into the glass doors looking for any mannequins that may have come to life after hours, I relegated myself to sitting at one of the empty tables in the faux Euro-style courtyard just out front.
Just two sweaty minutes later, a group of non-English speaking tourists sat at the table directly next to mine, avoiding the other dozen or so empty seats. The gibberish, possibly French, complemented the weirdness of their long sleeves and fanny packs. Didn’t they have somewhere else to be, maybe indoors? Just as I’d nearly succeeded in ignoring them, the straw not only broke the camel’s back, but it went on to kill the camel’s entire extended family. I heard what sounded like a recorder.
Allow me to sidebar for a second. Just in case you managed to forget what the recorder is, I will now ruin that for you. It’s the plastic pretend flute they issue you in 4th grade to prepare your parents for the cacophonous, expensive disaster of the school band. By Junior High, you dropped out of the band when you realized it wasn’t cool, and you completely suppressed your memory that your parents bought you a $400 clarinet. Your dim recollection of your fleeting musical endeavors was sparked only when you briefly moved back home after college and you found that overgrown kazoo in your sock drawer along with your First Holy Communion pictures.
But I couldn’t possibly have been hearing a recorder here at 6:45am on the surface of the Sun. I looked up to check, and it was, in fact, the dreaded plastic instrument. Then the overdressed group began singing in tongues to the shrill melody. It’s what I’d imagine would be playing in the waiting room at Hell’s OBGYN.
I’m not here. I’ve passed out in an alley between two dumpsters and this hallucination is just the onset of heatstroke by massive dehydration. I will wake up in the hospital with tubes hanging from my arms, and the plastic bag of saline hanging above me will be a welcome relief. As the nurses flick the needles full of morphine, they will say, “Wow, I’ve never seen heatstroke like this. You were lucky your coworkers found you!” And everything would make sense again.
My coworkers found me, indeed. But unfortunately for me, they found me conscious. Worse yet, they found me moments after the poor man’s ABBA had finished their set. A crazy tree fell in my forest and no one was there to hear it. Not only did my managers not understand my story, but they immediately tasked me with removing window decals to make way for the new store display. So I climbed the rickety, 15-foot ladder with a razor blade and a bottle of Goo Gone. With the sun beating through the glass into my eyes and the orange-scented grease running down my arm, I wobbled on the second step from the top, and the muscles in my neck finally relaxed. And I was finally cool.
Everyone at home was alive, and to my knowledge, everyone had peed where they were supposed to pee. A few short weeks after the incident, Ol’ Bessy and I broke up. It wasn’t her, it was me. So I ripped her out of my window with some unknown reserve of superhuman strength, being careful to lift her hundred pound frame with my legs. The patch of shower curtain came with her, flapping sadly. I hulked her out of my room and down the hall. She hovered a few inches off the ground, and sweat slid from my temples into my eyes. But she had to go, no matter how bad it hurt. I would have kicked her to the curb, but she really only made it to just outside our door. The next time I left the house, she was gone. I can only hope she lives on somewhere as scrap metal.
There will be blood. Insurance information will be exchanged.
April 12th, 2008
I was going to write my first blog, but then there was a car accident.
I had just cracked open the laptop and started to write, and by that I mean I wanted to check my theory on whether Omar Gooding actually is Cuba Gooding, Jr. and he had changed his name after he stopped hosting Wild and Crazy Kids.
Sidenote: I wonder if anyone has ever opted to become a junior in the name-changing process. Would that be a way to force someone to adopt you? Maybe if you really didn’t like your own dad, but your best friend’s dad invited you on family vacations and taught you how to drive stick. Things to look into.
So as it turns out, Omar Gooding is the youngest brother of Cuba who had stopped hosting the kid’s show on Nickelodeon to go on to be sentenced to 18 months probation on gun charges in the mid-90’s.
Just when I was about to see what Brad (Kelly Brown) from Hey Dude was up to lately, we heard squealing tires with a satisfying thud from outside. Knowing immediately that we were going to see a good old-fashioned Port Richmond car wreck, I threw on my rain boots, grabbed the dog and hurried outside before the accident disappeared. As our neighbors have told us before, we live on the corner of “Gunned the Red” and “Didn’t Even Know there was a Traffic Light,” but I can’t say I was prepared for the scene 15 feet away from our house. From what we could gather, the minivan with the accordioned hood hit the car that was standing on its side with the windshield nestled comfortably up against the traffic light. All I could think was how I’d never seen the underside of a car before. Tons of neighbors I’ve never met stood on porches and gathered in small groups to theorize about the position of the cars, like someone had just won a game of pool with some impossible shot.
Maybe I should bring something to the next accident, like some chips and guacamole. We could all take turns bringing snacks and coffee. I could take minutes and volunteer to keep a white board calendar with lists of names and ask whose turn it is on the rotation to bring the frozen margaritas. Tikki torches? Things to consider before the next accident. More »