I've had many learning
experiences while driving over the patchwork quilts of St. John's
roads. Two flat tires in one week taught me the fine art of the
pothole slalom. A broken alternator taught me that tow truck
dispatchers perceive time differently than most people. And, oddly
enough, a hitchhiker who tried to pick me up taught me a little about
what I want out of life.
It was the kind of fall
night that makes forecasts redundant. Rain fell, fog rolled, and
drizzle did its thing somewhere in between. My freshly second-hand
car hurtled down Prince Phillip Drive, engine purring with the power
of a soapbox racer. The road was clear as far as the eye could see,
about fifty feet.
It was 3:30am, and I was
heading home from poker at my friend's house. At the time, I would've
called myself “single and looking,” but the reality was “single
and wishing.” I'd spend my time playing cards with the boys, then
wish that a girl would spontaneously walk out of the fog and into my
life.
The light was red as I
pulled up to a major intersection. Two headlights shone through the
fog across from me. As I waited for the light to change, a figure
interrupted the headlights. “What the hell is that person doing,”
I thought. “Get off the road.” But she did no such thing. She
kept walking. I didn't know she was walking toward me.
She crossed the
intersection, opened the passenger door, and got in. For the first
time, I realized that I drive with my doors unlocked.
“My friend told me I
should go with you,” she said. “That doesn't sound like much of a
friend,” I responded. “What?” she said, already slumping in the
passenger seat.
She told me not to be
afraid. Her slurred voice reinforced my fear that my freshly
second-hand interior would end up covered in whatever made her drunk.
I asked her where she lived. She said it was nearby, but she'd rather
not go there, it's too boring. She wondered if I had somewhere she
could stay instead.
She was dressed more
modestly than she spoke, but her picture was worth a thousand of her
words. She had tights, a fashionable coat, and hair that was several
dances past did. She was a trophy that a frat boy would proudly mount
on his headboard. And she had spontaneously walked out of the fog and
into my car.
She told me her name,
which I forget. I told her mine, which I imagine she forgets. She
made a sound dangerously similar to nausea. I asked again about her
home, and she said it was nearby, but reiterated that it was boring.
She asked about my home, and I said it was nearby. I didn't say it
was boring.
I pulled into my
apartment's parking lot and stopped my car. “This is me,” I said,
final yet transitional. “I live near here,” she said, telling me
the street. “I could walk home later.”
At the time, I would've
called myself “single and looking,” but I didn't understand what
I was looking for. Unsatisfied with my dating, I imagined that
impersonal conquest would make me happier. But here, in my car,
outside my apartment, was a conquest. A conquest without any battle.
Without any meaning. Without any dignity.
I started my car. I drove
to the street she mentioned, and asked which house was hers. She told
me. I let her out, and watched as she fumbled for her keys and let
herself in. I turned on the interior light and breathed a sigh of
relief at the clean seat.
Afterwards, I thought
about this interaction. I wondered what kind of “friend” would
encourage a drunk girl to walk through a foggy intersection and into
a stranger's car. I wondered what conversation inspired her to step
into the street, and if getting into my car was escape or revenge.
But, most of all, I wondered why I'd wished for a catch without a
chase.
Years later, I'm not the
person I was on that fall night. This random girl's actions were just
that, but understanding my own actions helped illuminate myself.
Looking back, I see that I found inspiration even in the spontaneous
events of St. John's roads. Maybe that's why I'll always be a writer.
