Video games.
I am thinking about how ridiculously close the driver behind me is and the distance I have to roll back on a hill start. Did she lift her eyes from her phone long enough to notice that I’m driving a manual? Would it occur to her even if she had? And just how precious is her Mercedes bumper?
But really I’m thinking about my first car: an embarrassingly old and tragically uncool, 14-year-old wagon in sun-faded gold. About its broken radio and broken AC and wondering if I will ever learn to drive with the windows up. (Unlikely.)
I am thinking of junior year of high school and being the “poor” kid at a rich kid's school, parking in the city lot and walking with the sophomores because the $200 on-campus sticker would have eaten into gas and insurance money.
I am thinking of Doc Martin fisherman sandals and bootcut jeans and strappy tank tops from Abercrombie. Of the citrus and freesia notes of Gap’s Heaven and the sweet melancholy of a Dave Mathews song. I am thinking of trying to fit in.
My thoughts are pierced by unintelligible, tinny Spanish and my ears strain to figure out if the tiny Daihatsu truck that will come into view any moment is hawking limes or Jesus or both from the loudspeaker mounted on its roof.
The texting woman behind me honks because she’s seen that the car three ahead of mine has let off the breaks and moved forward 4 inches. She doesn’t know that I’m waiting for space to make the 4 inches myself with a move that will require right and left feet to be in perfect sync.
I am back here. Now.
The hill and the traffic demand attention that I don’t want to give today. At least I have learned this slalom.
Pothole one: Wiggle to the center line not more than two inches behind the car in front so that there’s no room for the motorcyclists to think that there’s space enough to cross.
Pothole two: Shift quickly to the fog line, far enough to avoid the pothole but not so much as to fall into the rain trench and blow a tire. And not without glancing at the side mirror first to make sure no overly-confident motorcyclists have decided to gutter bomb on the right.
Pothole three comes with two choices: The smart one to straddle the hole while setting up the line for the next curve. The prick move to avoid it by moving left, halfway into the oncoming lane. Most days I straddle.
Pothole four: The easiest of the lot, as long as you notice it and provided that no motorcycle packs are duking out whether uphill or downhill traffic will get the right of way today.
A hundred more meters and I’ll be able to breathe.
Nicolas pips up from the back. Quietly observing until now, he’s noticed a utility truck and is animatedly describing it with the few adjectives he has: BIG! Whee! (Yes, Buddy, that’s close enough to “white” to count.)
We roll onwards and I glance at the clock, wondering if 25 minutes will be sufficient time to go the 4km to get him to preschool.
Making my way around the roundabout that seems to have no rules, I forget that the windows are down low enough the critique of my fellow drivers to be heard and am surprised to hear a cruze doña from the car holding a spot for me to slip into the lane that I need. I wave a thank you and glance backward in the rearview to see the wooden rosary hanging from his. Small mercies.
The back half of the trip moves more quickly. No time or space to think, just enough to act and react. Over and over and over again until it’s time to turn into the neighborhood where the school sits.
Inching past a collection of late-model SUVs, I find a parking spot that will require a walk. Listo Kiddo?, I ask as I pull the e-brake and put the windows up on our trusty, economical 15-year-old sedan.
‘chool?, he chirps back and I am thinking about just how much he’s grown.
But really, I am thinking about just how much I have.
