Vehicle

Few things make my heart sink with worry like the check engine light.

I come by it honestly. On one of the multi-day drives back from Vicksburg MS, where I went to boarding school, to Denver, where we lived, my mom’s car packed to the brim with all my belongings, as the school year had just come to an end, the check engine light came on just an hour or two after we’d crossed the river into Louisiana. I remember my mom cussing and fretting. “Shit, this is not good. Goddammit, we’re going to have to stop.” I could feel her anxiety filling the car (which in my mind still seemed to be running just fine), and making it hard to breathe.

We stop at the next town, find a mechanic, and spend the night in a hotel. We’re back on the road the next day, but the damage is done. She’s shelled out a couple hundred bucks, or maybe a couple thousand, and she’s had to reschedule a few things in her life. The drive back to Denver is not fun. Anxiety and frustration continue to fill the car. We hardly talk.

I have a complicated relationship with my car, as one does with any object they have to trust and rely on for the essentials life. For the last five years, its check engine light has been on constantly. I’m sure my mom would be horrified at this state of affairs

But in my defense, I’ve had it checked out numerous times. By Volkswagen specialists no less (apparently these German cars are a breed of their own, and generalists often miss the subtleties of what makes them tick). I’ve poured money into fixes they told me were necessary, and I’ve trusted them when they said the car seemed in tip top shape, unable to discern why that light was on. When I drive around town, it feels exactly like it should, the sounds of the engine as I shift the manual transmission from second to third gear, then to fourth. It’s always been a trustworthy vehicle, doing its job, in spite of that pesky check engine light.

Last September I had a dream that I was delivering pizzas, as I did in my early twenties. I remember resenting that job, because it took time and energy away from what I really wanted to be doing, which was writing and running my own online business. But in my dream, I was enjoying being a delivery boy. I was happy to see my co-workers, the craggly old men I delivered with back in my Denver days. I was happy to get deliveries and hit the road. Even in my dream I was surprised by the enjoyment I was feeling. Aren’t I supposed to resent this? Aren’t I above and beyond this now, as a grown ass man with some business experience? Apparently not, as I remember the dream vividly when I awake, and it sticks with me through the following days. A rarity given I hardly ever remember dreams.

I interpret the dream as a sign from God. I head over to the website of a pizza restaurant just down the road from where I live, one I’ve ordered from many a time, and sure enough there’s now a job application form on the site. I say “fuck it” and fill it out. A day later, the manager texts me and asks me to come in. I do, and sure enough I learn that he’s also in 12-step recovery, and also a creative bald man who wears nothing but black t-shirts. It’s like finding a long lost brother. I start working the next week.

In my body and mind, I can feel my mom’s voice, that heavy anxiety that filled our car on that long suffocating drive, as the check engine light continues to stay lit. But I am coming to trust my vehicle, to listen to it and attune to it in ways that I can’t quite put words to. It’s subtle, but I seem to know how my car is doing by its sounds and smells and sensations. And when other dashboard lights go off, I attend to them. “Oh, you’re thirsty for coolant, my dear? Your tire pressure is a little low? Don’t worry, I gotchu babe.”

Night by night, I deliver pizzas, me and my trusty car, and it is indeed a contented work experience. The dream was right. The anxiety shooting through my body about the check engine light, was not. Of course, I could be doing something tremendously naive by continuing to drive my car. Maybe there really is something wrong in that thick jungle of German engineering beneath the hood, and I’m making it worse and worse as I drive on. That’s always a possibility.

But it seems that at this moment, Life, God, The Universe, is asking me to drive, and to trust my tools, however imperfect, and to take care of them as best I can. The voice of anxiety telling me to stop is one I’ve listened to and abided far too long, and I know from experience it never takes me anywhere I want to go.

P.S. There’s another thread I intended to pull in this piece about how my body is like a vehicle, and how its own check engine lights may be a bit faulty, but that’ll have to be an essay for another day.