writer & storyteller
They Like Shiny Things
The summer I turned 28 I moved back in with my parents and learned to drive from my father, my mother, and Norm from Norm’s Driving School.
Most lessons were with my dad, who was subtle with feedback (“You don’t believe in stop signs, I see.”) My mom didn’t like it when I took a hand off the wheel to brush back a strand of hair, so I supplemented with Norm. He sat in the front seat and ate pretzel rods while I drove, and asked if I minded Howard Stern on the radio.
You’ve probably seen well-meaning nonprofit-type folk wear sincere t-shirts with logos that champion Philly’s public transit. These people are almost always suburban-raised city transplants with the budget for an Uber when a bus is late. I agree with them in theory, but if you didn’t grow up fending off lecherous men on the El train every day, I don’t want to hear it. I put in my time. Get me behind the wheel!
My mom handed down her ‘96 Saturn when I passed my test. To me it was a luxury private jet. Someone else might see manual windows and locks, a broken tape deck, no GPS, no A/C, and a shelf life of less than a year until it was due to expire for good in a fog of radiator smoke. But I ask you, who’s happier?
She knew she was in a position of power. We sat at the kitchen table with the car keys between us. She moved them out of my reach.
“Before I give you the keys,” she said. “I have a few other items to give you.” She pulled them over, held them up and described them one by one.
“These are driving gloves, because the wheel gets really hot in summer. I’m not kidding.” She handed me a pair of dollar-store flower-patterned electric-blue gardening gloves with an elastic wrist, something a retiree would wear to pot geraniums in an AARP commercial. A memory rose up of Mom in 1998 in her own driving gloves, flip-up sunglasses attached to her wire rims, teeth bared as she maneuvered her white Cutlass Ciera into a parking spot.
I put the gloves to the side without comment. She handed me a Club steering wheel lock and a fresh foldout map of Pennsylvania.
“This is a stapler,” she explained next. “For if the ceiling starts to fall down. Keep it in the glove compartment.”
“Are we done?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “This is a letter to you from the car. Read it.”
She handed me a printout.
Dear Martha, it said in Comic Sans font. I’m happy to have you as my new owner. I will do my best to transport and protect you. I only ask…
What followed was a list of two dozen instructions. Keep my gas above ¼ tank…SLOW DOWN for SAFETY…Read my Owner’s Guide for all my facts…Don’t drive to the beat of the radio.
I resented the radio comment. It hit too close and how did she know, anyway? My dad came in and observed the scene. “Never trust a Mercedes,” he added. “Write that in your book, rule number fourteen. Think they own the road.”
I headed out the door with the keys; my mom hovered behind the screen. “Any more advice, I charge,” she said.
MUSIC CUE: “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross
BEGIN MONTAGE: MARTHA DRIVING
-EXTERIOR. COUNTRY ROAD
MARTHA sits up straight with both hands on the wheel and a big smile. She’s wearing old-timey driving goggles and a long Snoopy-as-Red Baron-style scarf, flapping in the wind from the open window as she drives past rolling green hills. She nods to a HORSE, who lifts a hoof in greeting. Tweeting bluebirds fly alongside her window.
MARTHA: Good morning!
MARTHA smiles and winks at the camera.
CUT TO:
-EXTERIOR. BUSY HIGHWAY
Stuck in traffic. MARTHA shimmies her shoulders and jabs the air with two pointer fingers. An ANGRY MAN in the car next to her glares. She waves and shimmies more. Traffic is at a standstill. She carefully puts on her hazard lights, gets out and distributes bags of plastic-wrapped homemade cookies, tied with ribbon, to the surrounding cars.
MARTHA: Let’s make it a party!
Cars start honking.
MARTHA: Yay! Time to merge!
CUT TO:
-EXTERIOR. CITY STREET
MARTHA navigates a series of potholes.
MARTHA: Whee!
She salutes a YOUNG KID on a scooter. He makes a disgusted face. Through the window, she shakes hands with SANITATION WORKERS, buys a flower bouquet from a STREET VENDOR, and gives the flowers to a CROSSING GUARD.
She sees a tight parking spot, expertly parallel parks, punches the air, then pulls back out and continues on.
MARTHA: Just like a really good set of burpees!
-INTERIOR. PARKING GARAGE
She enters a parking garage and carefully circles up the levels.
MARTHA: Mountaineering! Almost to the –
SMASH CUT TO:
-EXTERIOR. SUBURBAN CROSSWALK
MUSIC CUTS OUT
A loud SCREEEECH
MARTHA slams on the brakes. We see she’s been fantasizing about driving WHILE driving.
An ANGRY WOMAN jumps away from the front of MARTHA’s car, which is halfway into the crosswalk.
ANGRY WOMAN: WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING, MORON!
END MONTAGE
Over the next few weeks, the Saturn and I developed a strong working relationship. We knew how to navigate the everyday challenges of the road. We were a good team. We knew what to do. I knew what to do.
One night I was twenty minutes from home on a dark road with another car close behind mine (I kept to the speed limit, as per the letter.) Without the courtesy of a warning a great beast leapt in front of the car with front and back legs gracefully extended like it was going for points from the judges. It would have been beautiful if it weren’t so terrifying. Lit up in flight, the thing looked like a raccoon, but it could have also been a miniature horse.
I read something once by Wilma Mankiller, the first female Chief of the Cherokee Nation. She said, “Cows run away from the storm while the buffalo charges toward it – and gets through it quicker. Whenever I’m confronted with a tough challenge, I do not prolong the torment, I become the buffalo.”
I think there’s also some physics concept about momentum and velocity that proves impact hurts less if you’re in motion. Which is the same thing Wilma Mankiller is saying, but in a less poetic and inspirational way.
Besides, I had no time; if I stopped short the car behind me would hit me. I took a deep breath like Thelma and Louise (SPOILER) going over the cliff, leaned in and accelerated (Be the buffalo.) I made my “eek” face, knowing it was going to be an awkward interaction. This hurts me more than it hurts you, buddy.
WHOOMP! The bump-ba-dump-ba-dump seemed to travel halfway underneath the car and stop; then, a rattling noise.
I pulled onto a side street. Had the thing been sucked up under the car? Was I dragging it along? Where was it?
I did not want to look under the car. I thought, if I go back and find the body, then I’ll know it’s not under the car. I drove in slow circles. Please let there be a dead body. Please let there be a dead body. People beeped; there was nothing.
So it must be stuck under there. I saw a house with a hilly driveway, backed the car up onto the hill and drove slowly back down, thinking I could scrape it off. Nothing.
I didn’t know what to do. This was my first kill.
In high school, we did the flour baby project where we carried around five-pound bags of flour dressed in onesies to see what it was like to take care of a baby. Somebody’s flour baby got run over in the parking lot. There was flour all over the place. Also, they had to write a five-page paper on child abuse to pass the assignment.
Why wasn’t there some evidence of damage here? If the raccoon wasn’t hanging off the bottom, and the body was missing, and I heard that weird noise, could the body be up inside the car?
I again looked to my education for answers. (Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be there for?) We had done a dance to Greased Lightning in the seventh grade talent show. There was mousse and a comb and fuzzy dice and it magically got the pieces of the car together. But how were the pieces connected? I needed to know if it was possible for the raccoon to travel through the underbelly of the car. What if I opened the trunk and he leapt out at me like that scene in The Hangover? Or I went into the glove compartment to get the map and he was in there, self-harming with the stapler? Or I was driving and he popped up from behind, jumped on my head and covered my eyes with its paws?
Raccoons are supposed to be nimble and dexterous, always operating string blinds and opening jars of pickles, right? And they hold on to shiny objects even if it keeps them trapped. Maybe he had a grasp on the tailpipe and refused to let go. If he did let go, he wouldn’t be happy to see me anyway. Would I have to take him somewhere to tend his wounds? I hate hospital shows.
I pulled into the parking lot of an auto body shop. I was scared to get out. Now would be his chance to leap out and attack me. He probably had rabies.
MUSIC CUE: “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star
-INTERIOR. AUTO BODY SHOP - NIGHT
Three mechanics, CARL, YARL, and BART, sit at a table playing poker.
CARL: Ante up.
MARTHA bursts in the door, half-falling to the floor.
MARTHA: HELP! Out there! It bit me!
She points to her ankle and faints. CARL, YARL, and BART freeze, staring. Then they leap into action.
YARL: Scout camp, don’t fail me now.
FADE OUT.
FADE IN:
-INTERIOR. AUTO BODY SHOP - DAY
MARTHA lays asleep on a leather bench. She stirs and sits up. Her bandaged ankle sticks out from under a blanket. Next to her on a small table is a dixie cup of ice cream, an open Gatorade with a straw poking out, and a “Get Well Soon” balloon tied to a teddy bear. Daylight streams in the window.
MARTHA: Carl? Yarl? Bart? How long have I been here?
The three sit at a table in the corner, laughing loudly. They are playing poker with the RACCOON, who’s laughing loudest of all. The RACCOON has a bloody bandage on his stomach and is smoking a cigar.
The RACCOON points at MARTHA and speaks in a raspy voice.
RACCOON: Morning, sunshine! Sorry about the bite. You gotta watch where you’re driving, hon.
CARL: You’re lucky this guy knows first aid. (He points to RACCOON.)
BART: Your car’s all set. Two hundred seventy-five for services.
MARTHA limps out the door, then quickly returns to grab the ice cream cup.
FADE OUT.
The auto body shop was closed. I drove home and sat in the car for five minutes. Then I opened the door, leapt out, slammed it and ran into the house without looking under the car. How long could I ignore this? What if tomorrow a cop was behind me and it plopped down onto the road? Were there laws? I didn’t have a hunting license. What’s a game warden? Should I call them and tell them I had a raccoon living in my gas tank, and – it was obviously about to give birth; why else would it be so big – all its babies were likely snuggled in nooks and crannies throughout the Saturn?
The next morning I presented the information to my mom.
“No,” she said, waving her hand, unconcerned. “You’d smell it.” She stuck her head under the car. “See? Nothing there. It probably just bounced off and went on its way.”
So many warnings from the car, and none about roadkill. What my mom was and wasn’t nonchalant about was a mystery. This is the same woman who watched me walk out the door in a pair of heels and said, “Don’t fall.”
Some time after that I showed her a video of me telling a story onstage where I referenced some of her greatest hits and mentioned the driving gloves. She watched it all the way through. Then she said, “I’m gonna start doing comedy about YOU” and walked away.
This reminds me. Somebody once told me a story about how their brother was driving in upstate New York and accidentally hit a deer. While he waited for the police to come, a woman in a pickup truck stopped and asked, “Ya want the meat?” He told her he was waiting for the authorities. She put the deer onto her truck and said, “Just tell ‘em Wanda from Watkins Glen. They all know me down there,” and drove off.