Why Me?

We went to the coast to buy a car.  My uncle knew a guy at a dealership, he said.  He would give us a good deal.  

We weren't on the lot long.  The fellow showed us a pale green 1964 Chevy Biscayne.  It wasn't what I had in mind, of course.  There wasn't an ounce of James Bond in that car.  Worse, I knew I would be ridiculed and shunned at school.  But I also knew better than to say anything.  I wanted a car more than I wanted a PARTICULAR car, and I knew if I had opinions there would be a fight and we would leave without buying a car at all.  My parents seemed ready to spring on this one at $600. 

And that was that.  It was like most occasions in my life.  I had the thing, but not the thing I wanted.  Existence, I had learned, was bittersweet.  That was life the way my parents lived it, products of the Great Depression.  I'd heard so much about it, I felt as though I'd lived through it.  If they made popcorn at night, what was left over became the morning's cereal with milk and sugar.  They made snow cones with actual snow.  And those were the good times.  My father grew up on a farm and talked about the work.  The way he described it, I knew I couldn't keep up.  My mother talked about sleeping in a shack with no heat in a bed with her brother and sister, all huddled together under a quilt trying to keep warm.  In the morning, snow would have covered the blankets, blown onto the bed through chinks in the ceiling and walls.  

And so it was difficult to argue with them who gave so much and had gotten so little.  Money was tight.  I should be grateful.  

And Goddamnit, I was.  My father drove the car back as I didn't have my license yet.  But the following week, my mother took me to get it.  I was nervous about the driving test, and I should have been.  A big man got into the Biscayne beside me and told me to drive around a track behind the office.  It didn't look like a road to me.  It made no sense.  It was a parking lot with lines drawn on.  It was make believe and silly.  I would be driving and he would say, "Turn right here," and my mind would jump.  Where?  And suddenly some lines would appear and I would try to stay between them as I swung the car to the left or to the right.  And out of nowhere, a stop sign would appear and I'd slam on the brakes, not certain if it was meant for me or not for he hadn't said stop.  But the parallel parking was ridiculous.  He told me to pull in between three line.   I had no idea what to do and got the car in at a strange angle.  I was certain I had failed, and I imagined my parents saying it was too early and we would have to wait awhile before I could drive.  I sat glumly back inside the driver's license office waiting for my name to be called, my mother beside me dressed for work.  

Finally, a woman said my name, and we walked up to the window.  The woman asked me to sign something then asked my mother to sign, and then she gave me my license.  And that was it.  I had entered another world.  I was an adult.  

We went home and I asked if I could drive the car to school expecting my mother to tell me no, but she said alright, just be careful.  And she was gone.  Keys.  A car.  I walked out and slid in behind the wheel, the first time alone.  No one was around to tell me what to do.  I wasn't even sure I remembered.  But I twisted the key and felt the engine turn, then with shaking hands, I backed out of the driveway and into the street.  I imagined everyone was looking out from behind their curtains, calling neighbors.  "June, you need to look out the window, what's his name's kid is driving a car."  

I was late for school, of course, so when I pulled into the student parking lot, no one was around.  I found a spot and nosed the big Biscayne in and strolled to the office to let them know I was there, a man with a car.  They didn't seem impressed.  Indeed, the day was a disappointment to me, for nothing had changed.  I was still a kid under supervision, needing permission to talk or pee any carry out any of my other natural rights.  I couldn't wait for the day to end.  Every few minutes, I'd check my pocket to see if my keys were still there.  They were my talisman, my Holy Grail.  

And finally, the longest day had ended, and I ran to the parking lot to find my car.  It was a beehive of activity that I had never noticed before, kids pulling out and showing off, rolling out of the lot like criminals set free.  I waited awhile, sitting in my new car, hoping people would notice, and a few people came by, nobody showing any real interest.  They all had cars.  I was simply the latest installment.  

Finally, the first wave of leaving was over and I decided it was time to go, so I put the Biscayne in reverse and backed out watching my right bumper carefully to make certain I didn't hit the car next to me.  It looked close.  Then something stopped me.  It was metal and sickening.  No, no, oh no, a voice kept screaming in my head, but it was true.  It had happened.  I had hit the fender of the car parked behind me.  Sick with panic, I eased back into the parking space and got out.  I had creased the car.  It wasn't awful, but it was.  I looked around.  Hardly anyone was in the lot.  Maybe nobody had noticed.  Then someone came over and said, "Hey, that's Sonny's car."  Sonny.  Shit.  He was the star of the school's junior varsity basketball team.  "Yea," I said.  "I'll go report this to the office."  

The details of what happened next are of little importance, only that the glory of adulthood, of freedom, of all that I had been waiting for had been tainted.  I had failed to make the leap cleanly.  I dragged behind me the trappings of childish failure and dependence.  And as I finally pulled the car out of the lot, I could hear the silent laughter of my peers.  I could feel the hot tears welling as I too cautiously looked both ways before I pulled into the street.  "Why me?" I kept thinking.  Why me.