Some Streetlights Shouldn’t Exist, That’s Why I Run Them

 We watch the red headed boy, too old for his mothers hand, wander a bit away from his family to throw rocks at a seagull. The seagull is well focused on their meal, only rotating slightly to avoid the assault. The red head reloads, licking his lips when a razor “HEY” pulls him back to reality.  His father lets him know that what he’s doing is wrong and gives the patriarchal glare and hand jerk to indicate “get your ass over here.” The family walks through the thinning parking lot, navigating the CR V’s and hybrids, searching for their own symbol of domestic bliss. The whole family is brunette and tall, and I can’t blame the red headed boy for his obvious attempt at rebellion. The family loads their beach chairs and cooler in the trunk, their bumper stickers ease our minds by letting us know that they believe in science, that no human is illegal, and they stand with Ukraine. My hands have been around the steering wheel for 20 minutes now, while my father shuffles through music, asking me if certain bands are cool.

The parking lot is empty now, seagulls ravage trash on the ground, the wind picks up sand, and the coastal Spaghetti Western scene is set. My father lands on a Death Cab song and asks if I still like them.

“We can try again tomorrow if you want” he offers. I think of the advancements in technology and how the self driving car occasionally runs over children or bursts into flames. I think of how I despise the billionaire personalities that profit off these products, but how despite my political leanings I benefit from the leisure these corporations provide. The nuance of taking an Uber to a DSA meeting.

My father begins telling me about his week at work, at the boatyard. He massages his new tattoo on his arm, and I look through his gauged ear at the wrinkles on his neck, like rings around a tree, trying to pinpoint when this new look started. I think about all that I have accomplished in my 27 years and how learning to drive shouldn’t be a marker of success, how happiness shouldn’t be a lump sum of accomplishments. As if on cue, a group of teenagers pull into the beach parking lot. They step out of the car, giggling and passing around the case of hard seltzers. My father rolls up his sleeves to show off his many tattoo’s, as if to align himself with the “coolness” of teenagers.

Germantown, NY 2015

I’m working on some piece for some college class, something to do with cars, something to do with the cars owned by people close to me. I’ve spent the day trying to get in touch with my father, but this is during the period when we didn’t speak much. I’m seeking information on the type of car he owned, the car he crashed while drunk, way back when he was 20. He doesn’t call me back until later that night, when I’m in the midst of buying coke in a Stewarts parking lot. I take the phone call while my friend talks with our dealer about the Knicks and I try to keep my ice cream from dripping. I ask my dad about the car he crashed in his early 20’s while drunk. He responds, “Which one?”

The teenagers have walked over the sand dunes and the parking lot is ours again. My father puts on that one Coconut Records song. The thing about my father is he used to be cool. He used to drive these real hot cars, back when they were hot. He used to drive a 74 Duster and a Mustang, back when they were affordable. He used to drink a whole bunch and drive those hot cars into trees and lampposts. He got clean and sober at 23, same age that I got sober. He got sober about 8 years before I was born; the first time he ever said “I love you” to me. I never saw my father drunk behind the wheel, but I’ve seen him check Instagram while merging and cursing a new grey hair in the mirror while on the freeway.

There are levels to car safety, that might not be completely comparable, but should be adhered to. I often suppress my concerns for his driving, as I have little to no footing to critique. 

Tivoli, NY 2017

A more cautious friend once tried to teach me how to drive, but I talked myself out of it. I couldn’t hold a pen still because of my drinking, so I figured it wasn’t best for me to grip a wheel. I started taking fish oil daily, in hopes of improving my general physical well-being. I promised my friend that when the fish oil did its job, I would be ready to drive. An alternative was offered in the form of cutting back on drinking, but I insisted: the fish oil was the cure.

When the fish oil didn’t provide immediate, drastic change in my physical constitution, I switched to turmeric and clear liquors.

The seagulls have migrated to the parking lot, ravaging whatever scraps and crumbs remain. They form a magic circle, each hyper focused on their meal. My father has run out of songs to run past me, he has repeated stories of his coworkers being dip shits, and is shifting in his seat, the same way he does when holiday dinners go too long. When the topic of God is brought up, when an older family member starts talking about death. He is ready for something to happen, for me to do something. I impulsively shift the car out of park and press the gas, momentarily jolting us forward, before remembering I didn’t check the rear-view mirror, which was previously mentioned to me as the most important thing before you start driving. I slam on the breaks, ending our great American road trip abruptly.

The magic circle of seagulls is broken, startled by the jolt of the great and promising (Honda) Odyssey. Within seconds they resume their feasting, as if to taunt me: “We know you’re a coward and won’t drive towards us.” My father prepares a witty remark on this jolt, but then keeps it to himself. He told me it’s something he’s working on: keeping things to himself. Instead, he searches for some fatherly words, wise words to illuminate this experience for me.

He lands on this:

“Driving can be hard.”

I stare forward trying to envision myself driving. Trying to create an image in my head of me cruising down the coastline, wind in my hair, listening to music, some beautiful if not overly sappy image. If I can picture it, then it must be attainable. The summer sun begins its descent to a purple glow. I haven’t spoken in a while, I should say something, or at the very least clear my throat.

My father once told me about driving down to D.C when he was 19, to follow a girl. On nights they were broken up he would sleep in his car, knife in his hands. He told me about the car shop he worked at, the punk shows he saw, finding a new spot to hide his car at night, falling asleep to the sounds of the city around him. It’s a depressing image and somehow so beautiful, I can’t explain it. Some past teenage version of me that glamorized the Beat Generation is romanced by this story. It is completely an unattainable dream for me at this point in my life, it all begins with me easing my foot onto the gas and moving forward in this beach parking lot. The seagulls feast comfortably knowing that even if I could conjure some courage their wings move faster than the car would.

I take pride in my sobriety, that I have my own health insurance, that I have my own one-bedroom apartment. I have my list of achievements and decide that those are enough; learning to drive isn’t necessary. My father turns to me “If you learn to drive then I wouldn’t be able to drive you around and we wouldn’t spend time together.”

We switch spots, my father behind the wheel, and I in my rightful spot looking out the passenger window. We breeze down the road, the ocean smell fading away. At the top of a winding hill, we come to a red light, an empty intersection. My father drives through.

“Some streetlights shouldn’t exist, that’s why I run them.”