In September I began to live in my car. I think that all parents in Renfrew County began to live in their cars.
When the school bus companies suspended their services for some 10,000 students stretching from Buchanan to Westmeath, I scrolled online to read comments upon comments with stories from frustrated and angry families. There were rural-living mothers having to drive one child to an elementary school and another child to a high school, both 20 kilometres in opposite directions, twice a day. Single dads having to miss out on two hours of daily work from Monday to Friday to wait in the carpool line. Families needing to rush-purchase a second vehicle. Mothers who do not drive, pleading for a rideshare. Women having to put in their notice at their part-time jobs, reason being: I am not available to work from 8:30-9:30 am and 3:00-4:00pm. Everyone was collectively wondering how they’d be able to afford their snow tires if this went on any longer.
I made up new chants while in my car, whispered under my breath as my hands gripped the wheel. Songs with titles such as: Pass Me You Jerk (Intro), Please Get Off My Tail, This is a 50 Zone, Of Course It’s Always A Black Truck, Move up-Move up-Move up (Reprise), and Learn How To Use A Turning Signal. Idling the carpool line with the other tired parents, I refreshed my web browser on my phone, and then my email inbox, my thumb pulling back on my blue-lit empty screen now a little dance, a prayer, some sort of apprehensive daily ritual. Waiting to find an update from the School Board. Or from the Transportation Consortium. Or from the bus companies. Or from anyone.
And then I stopped. I was tired of the self-imposed angst. I surrendered and I moved into my car. I hung a cherry-scented air freshener on my mirror, adorned with a curly font that read, “Overly Anxious Driver’s Club”. I created a Spotify playlist with two distinct moods: one — uplifting and positive, and the second — calming indie and lo-fi. I roped a sweater’s arms around the passenger seat headrest for when I got cold. I put bottles of water in the backseat for my children.
I began to look out for the creatures that also decided to call my car home while it was parked in our garden, waiting for me to come back to it every afternoon: a tree-frog hopping across my hood as I pulled onto Highway 60, pleasingly wiggly and sliming in my hands when captured and released. A Hickory Tussock Moth caterpillar curled into the safe, dark concave of my driver’s side mirror. The invisible spider, still unmet, that lives anonymously in the space between my passenger seat and the floor, only known because of the fresh webs it weaves, the ones that I leave, that I allow. These days, I only aim to be a good and kind landlord. There is enough harshness out there otherwise.
I began to think of B-Line Road as a spine. I wondered if anyone else did too, with the singular way it held the close-knit municipalities together, a linear hub peppered by offshoot country roads not so dissimilar to a map of ligaments and nerves. I started to think fondly of my car as a separate dimension — one that I inhabit after I finish work, but before reuniting with my children. A Between Place. Most curiously, I began to enjoy the feeling of pressing my foot down on the gas pedal, deploying dual scientific principles of both gravity and force, while moving away from one thing and toward another.
Isn’t it sort of remarkable that we can do that? Couldn’t it be a form of magic?
I also began to write some stories in my head, and thanks to the time spent living in my car, they’ve grown into a collection of six short fiction stories. Instead of thinking about myself and what kind of woman I am or have been (boring, potentially dangerous, already overdone), I thought about other women — invented ones. The things they do, the things they think about, what they want or do not want. These women grew into characters made animate, popping up from the black asphalt and walking down the side of the highway, waving at me from amongst the reddening Sumac that I accelerate past. I’ve talked to them more than I’ve talked to anyone else this season.
This week, an email in my inbox alerted me that bus services will resume soon. The school board and the bus companies have finally reached an agreement. My first thought was, rude. My second thought was, wow, you have really come full-circle-acceptance with this one. Nice job.
It remains to be seen what I will do with all the extra time, if not spending it living in my car. I’ve been thinking of moving into the front porch, and feeling that out as a new spot. Maybe I’ll pace it back and forth, neck craned, waiting for the yellow bus to crest over the hill with my children inside. I hope that some of the women in my stories will decide to join me there, too.
WRITING PROMPT:
How does driving in cars come up in your own writing? Write about what you meditate on when you’re driving yourself, or consider what goes through your character’s mind when they’re inside of a vehicle. Can being in a car be a needed point of summary and reflection in your current work? Tell us about the temperature and the tempo of the ride. Fast or slow? Is there an accident looming, or could this be this a fateful getaway?
As always, thanks for reading. I’ve been peeling back my time spent socially on the internet lately (and obviously, I’ve been doing lots of obligatory driving instead), but I’m thankful for those that are here, who leave nice comments or share my posts, and who reach out to connect with me on writerly things!
xx Britt
Wonderful words!!!
Hey Britt, another great one. Looking forward to your stories!