MY BOYFRIEND S CAR

Here in my car

Where the image breaks down

Will you visit me, please

If I open my door in cars?

—Gary Numan

 

BROLOGUE

Aren’t they all rogues, heroes, daddies, absconders, users, groomers, captains, dreamboats, bad news, white knights, rapscallions, scrubs, cucks, abusers, parasites, saviors, narcs, closet-cases, little brothers, older brothers, protectors, himbos, fixer-uppers, coaches, alphas, lap-dogs, friend’s husbands, friend’s boyfriends, quick fucks, wizards, weaklings, impotents, mother-haters, mother-lovers, perfect gentlemen, and ultimately —our ideal ride?

1974 CHEVY NOVA

1984 to 1987

Imagine every conceivable wadded bag, foam box, soiled paper napkin, various condiment packages from every fast-food chain that most towns have to boast of; imagine oiled shreds and cheese glued pizza boxes, the small envelopes of parmesan and loose red pepper, accompanying cups, lids and straws almost interchangeable from vendor to vendor, soda cans included. Some of them crushed down, but most merely creased by a driver’s grip, emptied sans a sip or two, which placed down eventually tip over and soak surrounding packaging. The soaked areas reveal some of the remnants of the condiment packages too, as not all the ketchup or hot sauces could ever fully be used up. 

In the mix are also a few plastic name tags (not all in his name, some say “BOB”; being the running joke among his co-workers, as in “Bob on this!” followed by a hip-thrusting and hand gesture, an boy joke I pretend to get). Filthy half-aprons and sweat stiff t-shirts tucked here and there, the official uniforms of the fast-food jobs whose employee meals contributed to the pile up, as well as old check stubs and memos and instructions for opening or closing shifts. Worn Van sneakers rot quietly but not without corpse like gasses, deep under the seats, broken down by grease trap splash-back or bleached mop water damp. The menial work is the bare minimum he does while I am otherwise finishing high school in another town (he took a test that supposedly got him out a year ahead). It is to pay for the car insurance. It was that, or paying monthly rent to his mom, but he couldn’t swing both. So, in return, Yolanda refused to clean up after him anymore in the small apartment, and as long as he had the car, he could come get me and we could each stay out of our homes. Drive on our own. Away from our mothers critiques.

But, the real glue of this structure of detritus inside the tank like Nova, are the sunflower shells. The mortar of this cobbled strata of garbage are shell bits, moistened and chewed. That whole seeds already dropped casually on the deep bench seat by the driver, who often had a mouthful of them, tucked in a cheek, the tiny leftover bits were presumably aimed to dispense into an extra large cup (generally serving the purpose), until a sharp turn tips it sideways to disgorge on the pile. Perhaps the brimming cup will be righted, to resume it’s catching use (slightly more room in it now); more likely a stop at said 7-11 will bring a new Big Gulp of Dr. Pepper/Coca-Cola blend into the Nova, in addition, a couple of Montana Bananas, Paydays bars, perhaps a bag of Doritos, and usually, a fresh bag of sunflower seeds. Unsalted. There may be some brushing off of loose seeds on the seat, perhaps a few items off the floor on the very top layer, make their way into a garbage can if it makes itself convenient; but as ever I am wrenching open the passenger side door, and climbing in, entering this space eagerly. 

The seeds are a strange addiction. For years, I won’t meet anyone else who enjoys them, for years. But it is better than  cigarettes. Or chewing tobacco. His mother smokes packs at home, usually out on the the tiny balcony, filling the small space with the smoke, if not the obvious stubs, The Nova’s ashtrays contain nothing but sunflower hulls. The plug lighter got pulled out and fell on the floor, so it stays there below. 

It’s all densely filled. The typical areas created for a passenger to sit and ride comfortably, to place their legs in a natural gentle bend, and flatten their feet, it’s absent. The void the car manufacturer intended for the appearance of “traveling roominess” and passenger “comfort” is filled with trash. Enough to cover a pair of sandaled feet, if you really wanted to brace yourself in the wheel well. Almost a comfortable foot rest, if you didn’t look down into the mess.

I looked past it all.

1987 HONDA ELITE

1987 to 1991

When you tired of taking the bus, running to make a schedule, sitting at stops, hoping all the routes were running as expected, having to mind the clock so as not to push it to the last minute, to perchance miss the last ride. When you had enough of walking the great hill, avoiding the worst drivers at the chaotic intersections, slapping the streets in your old Brooks in your peculiar heavy hipped gait, sitting down at your favorite cafe to (finally!) enjoy a book, a coffee and a smoke; when you leave for the next Number 1 ride up Laurel, you spot a small sign on a scooter in the parking lot: FOR SALE. It was solid looking, dark red, two-seater in good shape, engine sounded okay (you were not mechanically gifted, to your dismay). Owner was selling it, helmet included. You mulled it over: Car ownership was a host of problems, especially in a crowded college town, money outside of tuition, was allotted for only the luxuries you saw as essential (smokes, coffee, books). Affordability was a consideration. The time you spent alone wasn’t unappreciated; reading Kierkegaard on the buses, or cool and unflappable walking and smoking, that was your style. Introspection was modeled by the great thinkers, and worth pursuing. Like the ex-Benedictine monk who mentored you, you valued silence. But, a scooter? 

The model name, the “Elite”? That almost more than anything else, was the selling point. Although, you would have never ever admitted this, except to allow for a sly slip of smile, if asked.   

You quickly adapted to riding it. It was now your style, like argyle socks and thrift store albums, it integrated into your world-view. You weren’t part of a club or a gang, you sat alone in car lanes inscrutable in mirror tint Bucci sunglasses. You found a “guy” who would keep the small Honda engine in shape, and would give you a break if you paid in cash. You were a conscientious driver, you never pressed your advantage by lane-splitting, or cutting a long merge wait —it meant, at most, a few more minutes observing life in chaos, then watching it temporarily assembling order, then you could be purring along. The speed and ease you could have getting to and from campus meant much more time writing and reading and listening to the inane discussions in sections, silently judging. Thinking on Descartes’ metaphysical account of the material world and its reliance on time. And? You could always just light a Dunham, and smoke it while you waited… 

C’est la guerre.

The rides we had together were good. They felt special (for me) and exciting. I’d only once been on a motorcycle ride as a very young kid, and it had probably terrified me. But, the sensation of sitting on the slightly raised back seat, your key turning, clicking the ON toggle and pushing the starter, seeing the small dashboard reveal it’s neon speedometer, feeling the shaking of the 150 rattling inside the body, all of it seemed so modern. So, futuristic! It wasn’t a classic restored Triumph, or a bad-ass crotch-rocket that blazed up the coast highway. You didn’t wear leathers, I didn’t wear boots, but we didn’t need obvious signifiers: we were rebels. Moving off so easily, traveling past buses we would have been stuck on, finding parking so effortlessly; the liberation was powerful! On cold nights, after studio hours finished and your library research was done, and the coffee shop at Stevenson had too many people for your taste, I would meet you for a ride back down the big meadow paths. The cold nights meant I slipped my arms around you, under your jacket, felt you tense and relax, leaning into a turn, bracing for railroad tracks. The Honda had a headlight I couldn’t see, but I watched the brake lights flash and flick as we wove around. A perfect rush of sounds that were just as much a soundtrack as anything we heard in films or the radio. Heartbeats, breathing, riding in a comfortable shared space. Picturing us in a black and white photo, or a nouvelle vague video. Cinematic. Sensual. Fuel conscious. This was romance, looking back.

Almost. Typically, I would be holding your jacket on the back like a kind of rein, especially in day trips, clutching it tightly in anxious moments when overwhelmed by the closeness of aggressive drivers around us. (Had to not pull down too much as it imbalanced you, “God, c’mon! Don’t choke me!”) I was still not the natural co-rider. I don’t know why I couldn’t just feel calm. I myself had no helmet. As I was an infrequent passenger, we agreed it wasn’t really necessary.