I finally had an evening free and no movies left to watch, so I decided to go to Café Artiste, a little independent coffee shop, somewhere in Houston. At this point, I can only describe its location as “somewhere in Houston,” because I was never able to locate the stupid little stop. At least Starbucks has a big green glowing sign. I drove around for 30 minutes, and finally pulled in under a big green sign to reluctantly join the throngs of trendy white people sipping complicated beverages around the world. As much as I hate to order a coffee that sounds more like a run on sentence than a drink, my favorite Starbucks drink is a grande white chocolate café mocha. I ordered one, sat down at one of the tables, pulled out my laptop, and pushed the power button. Nothing happened. I pushed it again, with the same result. A woman sitting near the window was watching me, so, as not to appear stupid, I made it apparent with subtle facial expressions that something was wrong with my laptop. I frowned. I furrowed my eyebrows and sighed. I sat there for a while, staring at it, sipping my drink, pushed the button again. I looked in my bag thoughtfully. Finally, with what I hoped was a look of consternation on my face, I closed the laptop, and took out a book, and read.
Because I don’t like reading when music is playing and people in banana republic jackets are ordering coffee around me, I read a chapter, finished my coffee, and went to a CD shop. There was nothing else to be done. Earlier that Saturday I had installed a CD player in my car, and buying new CDs seemed the logical thing to do. I don’t make much money, so I went to the used CD section of the store, thinking that one used CD would be alright. I bought three. Buying CDs is a kind of addiction for me. If I have any extra money, or I drive by a used CD shop, or the thought simply crosses my mind, I find myself searching through rows of used CDs. They call to me, these CDs. Their flashy covers and catchy names create in me a desire to take them home and see them amongst my own growing rack of music. Often, however, the bands with the coolest names and most artistic cover art are trying to cover up the fact that they suck. A lot. So I try to remember the name of that artist that I thought of yesterday whose CD I really should get because it would really add something interesting to my collection and I’ve heard their name around and I really like that song, uh, what’s-it-called. It never seems to fail that as I am pulling into the parking lot I have a long list of CDs that I need, and as I walk into the store they vacate my mind like Floridians in hurricane season. I started keeping a list. Each time I heard a CD review on NPR or happened to hear a song that intrigued me, I would add it to my list. The list got longer and longer, as I heard more and more songs that would really add a lot to my collection, and what about all those oldies, and I don’t have any classic rock. Sometimes I hear a song that seems like it might be something I should have in my collection, and feel relieved when it turns out to be not so good, because otherwise I would have to remember the name. In any case, the list got too long to fit in my wallet, so I discarded it. And so on Saturday night, I’m heavily caffeinated, shuffling through the aisles, flipping through unsorted row after unsorted row of musical mysteries. This CD store has no listening stations, so I can only guess what is contained in these plastic cases and search for the CD that I know I must have to be complete, if only I can remember the name.
Tuesday
Wednesday
Car Care
The car is spinning slowly, a dancer in a slow, heavy ballet. Denny, in the seat next to me, is very, very quiet. Later, he will talk about how we almost died, how I almost killed us. If, at any point, I wish to extol my virtues as an excellent driver, he will point to this moment, and I will have to agree that, yes, I should have braked earlier. The streets are wet with a thin sheen of water from last nights rain. The light was yellow, and I tried to stop too quickly, and the my old station wagon silently spun 90 degrees though I never turned the wheel. A car pulls into the right lane. We are perpendicular to it; I can see the scratched red paint of it's door in the rear view mirror.
During the second semester of my sophomore in college until November following my graduation, I drove a 1980 Ford Fairmont station wagon. Tan paint and a wide strip of cracked, fake wood paneling covered the doors and hatch. The air conditioning never worked, so I drove with the windows down during the summer and made other people drive whenever possible. No one ever insisted that I drive. Occasionally, it would emit funny smells and I would have to replace the radiator or fuel pump. Sometimes, when I would turn that key to shut off the station wagon as I pulled into the parking space, it would continue to grumble and sputter until I let off the clutch, as if protesting.
My new car is a Neon. I wanted something with two doors and a manual transmission, but this four door automatic was cheap. Sometimes I miss shifting the gears of my station wagon, feeling as if I was actually in control of the old metal rods and cogs. My new car now has a CD player and air conditioning. The windows roll up and down effortlessly, and I can unlock the back door without pulling off the knob. But it has no personality. It’s what I would call middle-aged-man-gold and the interior is a bland tan. It is not funny to say “I drive a 2001 Dodge Neon” as it is to say “I drive a 1980 Ford Fairmont Station wagon.” People laugh when you tell them that your car is a year older than you. They are not impressed by a Neon. No one is impressed by a Neon. And although I am now getting about 10 more miles to the gallon and can listen to CDs in my car, I will cherish the memory of my wagon. I would have kept the hood ornament, a silver “F” on the end of the hood, but someone stole it last month. Twenty-four years it stood valiantly atop those six growling cylinders and clanking transmission, and last month it was stolen in the parking lot of my apartment complex. But I still have a key on my key chain, next to the key to my new car.
Recently, my Neon has been acting up. I had to feed it four hundred dollars to satisfy it’s squeaky brakes. Water had been hiding inside the brake drums chewing on the shoes and pads and making my car’s brakes sound like those of an old city bus. Then a new kind of trouble began. Stopping-in-the-middle-of-the-highway kind of trouble. My impetuous car does not want to follow orders like other cars. I decide to take it to a mechanic as I glide to a stop on Main Street and realize that my car has shut off without any instructions from me. It dies on the highway on my way to the shop. Fortunately, I make to the shop, and, after only five trips to various shops, it works again. But I hate it now. There is no excuse for this kind of behavior. It is four years old. My station wagon was twenty four years old, and it never tried to kill me. Except for sweet smelling purple smoke that occasionally poured from the radiator, it behaved quite well. And so my memory of my station wagon has grown fonder. And although the number of road trips I have taken since I purchased another car would have probably long ago put the station wagon in intensive car care, I sometimes wish it was still sitting in front of my apartment instead of my demon possessed Neon. Besides, it had wood paneling on the sides. You can’t get that on a Neon.
During the second semester of my sophomore in college until November following my graduation, I drove a 1980 Ford Fairmont station wagon. Tan paint and a wide strip of cracked, fake wood paneling covered the doors and hatch. The air conditioning never worked, so I drove with the windows down during the summer and made other people drive whenever possible. No one ever insisted that I drive. Occasionally, it would emit funny smells and I would have to replace the radiator or fuel pump. Sometimes, when I would turn that key to shut off the station wagon as I pulled into the parking space, it would continue to grumble and sputter until I let off the clutch, as if protesting.
My new car is a Neon. I wanted something with two doors and a manual transmission, but this four door automatic was cheap. Sometimes I miss shifting the gears of my station wagon, feeling as if I was actually in control of the old metal rods and cogs. My new car now has a CD player and air conditioning. The windows roll up and down effortlessly, and I can unlock the back door without pulling off the knob. But it has no personality. It’s what I would call middle-aged-man-gold and the interior is a bland tan. It is not funny to say “I drive a 2001 Dodge Neon” as it is to say “I drive a 1980 Ford Fairmont Station wagon.” People laugh when you tell them that your car is a year older than you. They are not impressed by a Neon. No one is impressed by a Neon. And although I am now getting about 10 more miles to the gallon and can listen to CDs in my car, I will cherish the memory of my wagon. I would have kept the hood ornament, a silver “F” on the end of the hood, but someone stole it last month. Twenty-four years it stood valiantly atop those six growling cylinders and clanking transmission, and last month it was stolen in the parking lot of my apartment complex. But I still have a key on my key chain, next to the key to my new car.
Recently, my Neon has been acting up. I had to feed it four hundred dollars to satisfy it’s squeaky brakes. Water had been hiding inside the brake drums chewing on the shoes and pads and making my car’s brakes sound like those of an old city bus. Then a new kind of trouble began. Stopping-in-the-middle-of-the-highway kind of trouble. My impetuous car does not want to follow orders like other cars. I decide to take it to a mechanic as I glide to a stop on Main Street and realize that my car has shut off without any instructions from me. It dies on the highway on my way to the shop. Fortunately, I make to the shop, and, after only five trips to various shops, it works again. But I hate it now. There is no excuse for this kind of behavior. It is four years old. My station wagon was twenty four years old, and it never tried to kill me. Except for sweet smelling purple smoke that occasionally poured from the radiator, it behaved quite well. And so my memory of my station wagon has grown fonder. And although the number of road trips I have taken since I purchased another car would have probably long ago put the station wagon in intensive car care, I sometimes wish it was still sitting in front of my apartment instead of my demon possessed Neon. Besides, it had wood paneling on the sides. You can’t get that on a Neon.
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