I remember my knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. My arms, tense and rigid, felt clammy. I adjusted my seat for perhaps the fifth time. The gear shift held strong as I gripped its shaft and fiddled with its rubber covering. My leg shook for no particular reason. The air conditioning was cool and relaxing. I enjoyed the rumble of my tires against the road and the quiet hum of a sparse highway.
I remember the heat of the day distorting my view of the asphalt. It was a suburban mirage. It reminded me of hot afternoons on the basketball courts in middle school when the only thing entertaining me were these familiar ripples dancing on top of the stark black asphalt.
I remember the monotony of the clock ticking. I stared at the ceaseless movement of the second hand as it circled around and around. I loved waiting for the inevitable moment when the second hand nudged the minute hand just an increment forward.
I remember the stiffness of the line snaking around the building, feeding us into an archaic queue system. A disgruntled receptionist waded through my paperwork. I walked through a maze of plastic chairs to sit down.
I remember trying to read Antigone and understanding nothing. Greek tragedies are best read with Sparknotes. I surveyed the room, trying to find solace from Sophocles, but only found stillness. Others shifted in their seats, passing the time in whatever manner suited them. The best thing I could do was read about Greek heroes having sex with their mothers.
I remember the quiet shuffling of papers, the ringing of office phones, the strangely loud ruffling of a man’s windbreaker, the sharp clack of a keyboard click, the indecipherable murmurs of a front desk conversation, the flush of a toilet, the tap of a foot, and the sisyphean tick of the clock.
I remember watching the time. It must have been sometime in the late afternoon when the oppressive heat stepped back. It took months to get this appointment. It took hours just to get seen. In a few minutes it would finally begin, only taking seconds for me to mess it up. Just three or four clicks of the second hand might spell the end.
I remember the agony of waiting. I missed having strangers around me, even if they wanted nothing to do with me, and I wanted nothing to do with them. Sitting in the car, I had never felt so isolated before.
I remember an Asian man getting into the passenger seat. I think he was Korean. He was like Steven Yeun, but he worked at the DMV. He said nothing at first – just flipped through his clipboard, methodically. Absent minded small talk flowed from his mouth. He wore a blue and white striped polo, jeans, and dockers. He kept his hair fairly short and spiky: enough gel to make me think of how sticky it would become in the hot sun.
I remember turning off the radio and blinking the hazard lights. I remember checking the windshield wipers, the turn signals, and the defroster. I remember flashing my emergency lights, cranking my emergency brake, and stepping on my foot brake. I remember slamming on the horn for the first and only time in my life. I remember slowly coaxing the car out of its shaded space. He wrote something on his clipboard.
I remember how much I hated Oceanside roads. I still complain about Oceanside roads when I drive there. The entire road system was designed by a monkey running around with a pen attached to its tail. Anyway, the roads aren’t as bad as they used to be. Oceanside is gentrified now.
I remember staring at strangers in their cars. Where is everyone else headed? What do they think about me and my car and my driving? Is their driving up to standard? Am I being obvious? People’s mentals states are often unconsciously reflected in the subtle ways that they move, act, speak, blink, and stand in a room. Do cars carry the same level of expressiveness as the human body? Perhaps it’s not that deep. There is a friendly Korean man with a clipboard next to me.
I remember praying. I prayed that the tires missed the curb. I stared at the reflection of my windshield mirror. Those sad suburban Spanish style houses leered at me as I inched backwards. I couldn’t tell what he was looking at. The car did as my hands and feet commanded. He motioned for me to stop moving, and wrote something on his clipboard.
I remember an unassuming slip of paper.
I remember a gear shift that did as told.
I remember the steady thrum of the Five Highway.
I remember finishing Antigone. I’m still not sure what it was about.
I remember missing the aloofness of strangers.
I remember driving to school, alone.
Sole Magazine