I love my car. This is not some casual affection, mind you, like one might have for a particularly agreeable houseplant or a favorite coffee mug. No, this is a deep, abiding appreciation for the independence and freedom that four wheels and an internal combustion engine provide.
But my love for driving goes beyond convenience and control. As I'm sure you know, I live with a mood disorder. I manage it reasonably well, thank you very much, but there are moments when anxiety, depression, or an inexplicable wave of grief descends like an unexpected houseguest who's overstayed their welcome by approximately three decades.
In those moments, I'm overcome by an urgent, almost primal need to be somewhere else; anywhere else, really. I just need to get out on the open road and get away! Without a car, I feel trapped, caged, like a particularly anxious hamster who's been denied access to his wheel.
All this brings me...(you knew it was leading somewhere, didn't you?) to last Tuesday afternoon and the curb at Princess Street and 3rd Avenue—a curb that apparently was possessed by demon sewer harpies.
One moment of inattention, one slight miscalculation of spatial geometry, and suddenly I found myself staring at a tire that looked like it had been through a particularly brutal round of reality television.
What followed was nearly four days without proper automotive mobility, a period I can only describe as my descent into madness, and what Princess Amy called "a perfectly reasonable consequence of my inability to navigate street corners." She’s been in a snit since I called her a menace to civilised society and then told her she’s never going to be a reality TV star.
By Friday morning--and I don't like having to say it--I found myself at Starbucks! The caffeine habit must be satisfied, my friend, and I'd somehow convinced Island Irv to meet me somewhere off Castle Street.
"I've been searching everywhere for a replacement tire," I said, with the weary air of one of Arthur's knights who's just returned from an unsuccessful grail quest.
"That does sound stressful," Irv said with his characteristic reasonableness, which I found irritating in my current agitated state.
"Stressful doesn't begin to cover it," I said. "I've contacted every tire store in Leland. The affordable options must be ordered and have a ten-day wait for delivery."
"Ten days?" Irv repeated, his expression sympathetic in that perfectly reasonable way that made me want to overturn the pastry display.
One of the customers at a nearby table, we’ll call him Buddy, who'd been scrolling through his phone during our conversation, finally looked up and offered, "You know what you should have done?"
"Too late for that now,” I said, hoping to avoid a retrospective analysis."
"What I don't understand," the man said, returning to his phone with renewed interest in absolutely nothing, "is why you didn't just order the tire online. You should remember that next time.”
I counted to ten. Then to twenty. I briefly considered whether it would be socially acceptable to count to a thousand while making aggressive eye contact.
"Because, Buddy," I said with exaggerated patience, "call me old-fashioned, but I assumed that somewhere in this coastal paradise, at least one tire shop would have tires in my size sitting on a shelf, waiting for me to walk through the door with cash in hand."
Princess Amy's voice returned, because of course it did. "This is what happens when you don't plan ahead. Normal people keep a spare tire. Normal people don't drive into curbs like they're practicing for a demolition derby."
I pushed the voice away and focused on my coffee, which makes no judgments about my driving skills lest it be judged.
"So what did you do?" Irv asked, leaning forward with genuine interest.
"I finally found a shop in Leland that had the tire. It cost more than I wanted to pay but less than ransom prices, so I'm calling it a victory."
"Four days isn't too bad," Irv said encouragingly.
"Four days without a car feels like four years trapped in a house that feels three sizes too small."
"That's the anxiety talking," Irv said gently, with that reasonable tone I found mildly infuriating.
"Of course it's the anxiety talking," I agreed. "But knowing it's anxiety doesn't make it feel any less real."
The guy at the neighboring table looked up one final time. "You know, they make run-flat tires now. Next time you buy tires, you should really consider—"
I interrupted him, "If you say 'next time' one more time, I'm going to scream."
He shrugged and returned to his phone, apparently satisfied that he'd fulfilled his advisory quota for the morning.
Princess Amy, never one to miss an opportunity for commentary, whispered one final observation: "You do realize this entire crisis could have been avoided if you'd just paid attention to where you were driving."
I finished my coffee and made a mental note to thank the universe—or whoever was in charge of such things—that the tire would arrive by Monday. Until then, I would practice patience, manage my anxiety, and try very hard not to think about all the places I couldn't go.
And maybe, just maybe, I'd look into that roadside assistance program Buddy mentioned. You know. For next time.
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