The Therapeutic Drive
The very sight of it lifts your deflated spirits. It is new, less than a month old, but it invites you in like an old friend you haven’t seen for months. Compact and sporty, it is painted brilliant white, and in the orange glow of the setting sun it seems to generate a warmth all its own. You open the door and slide into the bucket seat, and wiggle your behind to nestle in as deeply as possible. You place your hands on the wheel, close you eyes, and with a deep and relaxing breath, you drink in the soft and sensual odor of the new leather.
It was a trying day. You overslept, and as soon as your feet touched the cold tile of your bedroom floor, the day was in control of you, rather than the other way around. Your shower was brief, and lukewarm. In your haste, you selected your wardrobe from the various day-old articles lying on the floor, and you forgot your breakfast, a bagel, left on the counter as you rushed from the house. You arrived late, were reprimanded, and as a result, received an assignment nobody else wanted. At lunch, you found yourself short of cash, and had to borrow money from an acquaintance, who proceeded to burden you with the latest episode of his troubled and disturbing home life. In the afternoon, you were instructed to rewrite a report, one you had struggled with from the beginning. It was no easier the second time around. Your frustration boiled over once, and you snapped a pencil in half and threw it into a drawer, which you then slammed shut, smashing the tip of your thumb in the process. However, now that is all behind you, and as you sit behind the wheel it feels more like the beginning of triumph, than the end of defeat.
Your right hand reaches and finds the ignition, and you begin your drive. The car is small, but seems big and powerful to you. You accelerate quickly and find the open road. You lean in to the curves, first one way, then the other, like a bicyclist negotiating a mountain trail. You find yourself humming little “vroom” noises as you speed through the turns. Finally, during a long straightaway, you sit back and relax. Most of the tension has now drained from your body, and a smile has crept onto your face for the first time all day. You glance in your rearview mirror, and extend your right hand to make a minor adjustment to its angle. Wanting company, you push the button on the radio, but find nothing. So you push it again. You slide open the ashtray and engage the lighter, just to test it. After it pops, you raise it toward your lips and feel its red-hot warmth, its single bloodshot eye advertising a warning as it gets too near. You roll your window down, thrust out your hand, and with palm downward, guide your arm up and down, like the wing of an aircraft responding to the forces of the atmosphere. You begin to feel liberated, as though released from the punishing life that has incarcerated you since you awakened.
Darkness begins to fall, and your foot gently depresses the brake pedal as you enter the city. Traffic has slowed, and your driving suddenly becomes more focused, a mental act, rather than the purely physical one it had been. A large white boxy obstacle takes up most of the view in your windshield. “Ugly Minivan,” you mutter to yourself. “Looks like a freezer driving down the street.” With a slight twist of the wheel, you quickly change lanes and go around, signaling your intentions with each maneuver. More obstacles block your passage, and even though you no longer feel burdened by the flotsam of the day’s voyage, you make rude but unheard comments to other drivers, more for the sake of ridicule than out of anger. “Come on buddy. Drive that thing.” “What’s the deal lady? Am I invisible?” “Get a clue mister. Who taught you to drive?”
Your vehicle is suddenly bathed in a bright light, and you instinctively push on the brake pedal to bring the car to a halt. You shield your eyes from the glare, and see a man approaching as you squint into your outside mirror. “Oh, great. A cop,” you think to yourself. He peers in the window and motions to you, as if rolling down a window. You oblige, and he looks at you intently without a word, and surveys the inside of your vehicle. At last he speaks.
“Nice car,” he says.
“Yes, it is.”
“Long drive?” he inquires.
“Not too far,” you confess.
“Kind of dark for no lights, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.”
“Gonna have to see your license and registration.”
“Uh, I’m afraid I don’t have them with me.”
“Well, in that case you’ll have to step from the car and come with me.”
He opens the door and you step out. He places a strong hand between your shoulder blades and guides you into a nearby building. He is tall. You glance up at him and he delivers a knowing smile. You enter a room, in which sits a table, and a set of chairs occupied by three other people. Two chairs remain empty. The only adult woman at the table sees you enter and she smiles softly.
“Oh good,” she says. “There you are. Just in time. Feel better? Go wash your hands.”
Your father gently squeezes your neck with one hand as he switches off the light to the garage with the other. He predicts, “Only eight or nine more years, you’ll be bugging me for the keys.”
