The Places You’ll Go

by dana gonzalez

Is fascination with cars genetic? My son recognized car models by the time he was two and-a-half. On vacations he could point out our rental or others of the same make from 200 feet away. Yesterday I tried to get into a Subaru outside of a 7-11 because it was blue and parked in the same vicinity I’d parked. I drive a Honda of a different color blue. I chose this car because of its “unique” color. And still I nearly climbed into someone else’s vehicle.  

I don’t imagine that the person driving a black Mercedes Benz accidentally attempts to get into a black Toyota anything. 

Recently, I got a request to drive my boss’s black Mercedes for a couple days as he lives out of state and the battery needed charging. He’d gotten an email – from the car – with a message to this effect. Sure, my car sends me emails too: “Bitch, I need oil, gas and air in my tires and for goddsake, I’m filthy and smell like boy shoes.”

But, ya. Woah! Yes, I will drive around in your MB. I made the switch and the next day, was as usual wondering what to wear to work, when suddenly the thought entered my head: “What should I wear for this CAR?” This is a Mercedes Benz and it will not do to crouch down and then fall into the leather seat in some kind of proper office gear. Or would it? Does this car want trampy heels, butt-hugging denim and my coolest mom sunglasses from Target? Or does it want slacks and a silk blouse and my coolest mom sunglasses from Target? I compromised and wore some business casual but with no underwear. 

Heels do not enable ease of entry into a car this low to the ground. Nor do tight jeans, short skirt, long skirt, or face it, a 50-year-old booty. Is this what they mean by “Benz?” I chalked up every entry and exit to my daily quota of squats. 

Once in the car – well, it’s complicated, and with so much room for error! It was raining and the gear selector is in the same position that my wiper blades are located, which could be messy. Unless this car could reverse me right out of the storm?

Next, I could all but cook a 4-course meal with the whole dashboard situation and so just  forced myself to focus on getting this little MB from point M to point B. 

What fun is that? I opened her up to 30 MPH. Crazy! But what else can you do in the heart of suburbia without getting an Amazon delivery guy stuck in the grille.

Not being someone who orgasms over “hot” cars, I did have to marvel at a few things in this one. Stepping on the gas made the car go, like, now. As a leadfoot, it was important for me to step hard on the gas just to see how far my head would fling back. I got a new hairstyle.

Don’t tell, but I did also pick up my son from his girlfriend’s house and allowed him to play a lil’ Lil’ Peep at top volume. And here I’d never thought anything could make Lil’ Peep sound good. This car did. What I wouldn’t give for a moment of bonding with this boy – so I let the floorboards of ours and our fellow red-light dwellers pound and throb to the dark profanity that is emo-rap. 

This tight machine turns corners like a dream. The seat hugs you like a sticky toddler. Or a drunk ex-boyfriend. Super special.

I had to explore the personality of the vehicle. What is an MB driven by a middle-aged woman. Did it make me self-made? Kept? Ho, or stay-at-home wife? I identified with car thief – which begs the question. If I were to steal a luxury vehicle, would it be a Mercedes Benz? 

This car, considered a luxury “executive” vehicle, might not be my choice in the end. I mean, crippling myself to slide under the steering wheel is not a graceful move. Struggling to get out of a car is definitely something for the AARP lot. Can I eat while driving? Does it belittle this car to park in front of a 7-11 or Target? Is coffee or red wine going to stain the leather? 

This is a lot to ask for car payments that will infringe on my wayfair.com budget.

My son, now 15 would prefer a Miata as his first car, as if I’d asked. I almost got a Pinto at 16, but thankfully ended up with the use of  a 65 Mustang that a lot of guys would drool over, now. At the time, in spite of the fancy 8 track tape player it was just a ride.

It seems my son thinks “people” “get” a car when they turn 16. I asked him why he thought this. He explained, because every girl wants a white Jeep. Wait and follow the 15-year-old brain. “Therefore since my sister will get a Jeep, I should get a Miata. “They’re only like $2000 used and I’ll fix it up.” Sure, my dude. I love you but you can’t even make coffee. Besides, my job is to get you flying on your own, not parking some wreck on bricks in my front yard until you’re 42.

I think I don’t have a dream car. My dreams scale a bit higher than what I drive to work or the grocery store. My vehicle needs to be able to haul kids, bicycles, groceries, sleeping bags, tents and coolers, football players, girl scouts, sleds and skis. Maybe not girl scouts. Or sleds. Or football players. More like bags of Ulta 3 and skateboards.

Never-the-less, in my car are milkshakes, french fries, stinky feet and at some point new drivers. At which point there will be the milkshakes, french fries and stinky feet of “others.” Likely all over the floors and seats. What my car needs now is to carry my dreams come true.

At some point I will need to get a new car. “Oh, the places you will go,” said Dr. Seuss. If only he knew. I’ll be going there in something like an old red pickup, with very little pickup 1) because I’ve given my kids the “good car,” 2) so I can move them out of my house, one Xbox at a time, and 3) so I can do it slowly. Ever so slowly.