The Passenger Princess Diaries
What happens behind the wheel is, frankly, none of my business!!!
VANCOUVER – As I heard the Toyota’s front bumper scrape against the retaining wall, I remembered the parking space was a tight fit.
This is pretty tight, I had thought to myself, as I retrieved the car to take Stu to his vet appointment. So imagine my surprise, then, when not three hours later, nothing had changed.
The spot, situated near the entrance to an underground parkade, wouldn’t have been my first, second, or even third choice. But it was the only place I could park the Toyota, according to the rules of the car-share program.
Ideally, I would have parked by pulling onto the driveway leading down into the garage, and then backing into the space. But I’m returning the rental late and the car’s next driver, a woman in her thirties – brown hair, generally kind aura – is standing perilously close to the spot. I could’ve asked her to move, but I was frazzled and so I did what any red-blooded white man would do: I put this motherfucker in head-first.
In doing, so I ushered in a dizzying climax to the drama that was the past 10 minutes. After Stu’s vet appointment – a routine geriatric check-up that nevertheless saw the little bastard hissing, spitting, and swatting for his life – Leah and I wanted lunch. We drove east, to Red Wagon Cafe, a diner on East Hastings with fluffy pancakes, strong coffee, and a Bahn-Mi breakfast sandwich. We ate and chatted as black-and-white Westerns played behind the bar. I had the car booked until at least 2:15 p.m., and the app told me it was free until 11 a.m. tomorrow.
Which it was – until it wasn’t.
Somewhere between my pulled pork pancakes and Leah’s fried chicken sandwich, the Camry was booked by another member; a reality we only realized around 2:11 p.m., when, driving back from the restaurant, I asked Leah to extend our time on the app.
It’s giving me an error, she said, The time selected conflicts with another user’s booking.
Fuck.
At 17, I owned a Toyota inherited from my grandmother. Now, I share one with a cooperative of drivers scattered across the Metro Vancouver area. This is eco-friendly and fiscally responsible. It is also evidence of millennial regression. I own practically nothing and I do not enjoy it.
We were five minutes away from the parking stall. I wanted to jump to hyperspeed; I wanted to disappear into a black hole.
People say Vancouver is more congested than Los Angeles. I was never sure if this was actually true, or just a foolhardy attempt to paint the city as a bustling metropolis, instead of a sleepy city where key shopping districts close at dinner time.
Today, though, I swear, Vancouver was more congested than Los Angeles. I pulled up to a red light at the intersection of Oak Street.
We’ll get there when we get there, I thought.
The clock turned.
2:15 PM.
Officially late.
This is so embarrassing, I thought.
I feel embarrassed a lot as a driver: by my inconsistent and variable speeds (Too slow! Too fast!), by how I worry about what’s playing on the radio, by the fact that I have had several (non-fatal) car accidents of varying degrees of seriousness. Mostly, though, I’m embarrassed by my own stress behind the wheel, by the person I become for the 20 minutes between my house and wherever we may be going to eat/work/play that day. By the fact that I am so easily rattled by all of this.
Years ago I decided, if I win the lottery, my first order of business would be hiring a personal driver. I don’t care if we’re tooting around town in a ‘94 Camry like two high schoolers. What happens behind the wheel is, frankly, none of my business. I’d rather spend my time picking music, drinking coffee, checking out the scene.
I’d rather be a Passenger Princess than King of the Road.
As we approached the parking space, though, I simply wanted to be anywhere else. Of course, the girl was standing there at 2:16 PM and of course, she saw me drive the car, gently (!), at a snail’s pace, practically, into the wall. She watched, too, as I exited the car, holding Leah’s leftovers (not masculine), to inspect the passenger side for any damage.
I peered at the bumper expecting the worst, only to find it covered with several of the car share’s small, branded stickers; each an account of crashes long since passed. Proof, perhaps, that other people had tried and failed to put this motherfucker in head-first.
Could I be mistaken? I looked for new signs of wear and tear, for a physical manifestation of my own inadequacy. But everything looked fine. The brown haired girl got in the car and drove off.
In this sense, let’s call it a near miss.
Comments, criticisms, collaborations? Bang the inbox – ethan@humanpursuits.org