Parking the Car

by Anna Abramson, '07

Today has been like most days. I wandered in a dreamlike state from class to class, across a campus with falling fiery leaves, up three flights of beer-stained stairs, into a room littered with the debris of my chaotic existence, and straight back into a chronically unmade bed. I chased images and thoughts in my mind, getting nowhere, while faintly aware of music drifting from my computer. I closed my eyes without trying, and dreamt without sleeping, and thought without thinking real thoughts. I spent as much time luxuriating in nothingness as I could, before the bar of guilt and responsibility clamped down on my shoulders, compelling me to do homework, to think about thinking. Now it is back to nothingness. I am lying on our dorm room floor delighting in an unexpected snack. "This is damn good stuff," I say, shoving a tortilla heaped in salsa into my greedy mouth. "This is amazing," Thea agrees, shutting her eyes to intensify the already orgasmic experience of eating homemade chunky salsa. I disregard the desperate and pained pleas of my hall mates as small pieces of tomato fly from my overloaded tortilla onto the rug. The poor chip is terribly weighed down and breaking under the pressure, causing salsa to slide off on all sides. I remember that in a moment of frenzied sanitary obsession last week, I actually cleaned the toilet. There is, therefore, no reason to be clean now. I recline in a salsa-induced stupor, squinting in vague curiosity at a plate of cookies in the kitchen. I try to ignore them, but I just can't. Eat us, they hiss. I saunter lethargically into the kitchen and engage in a momentary face-off with the provocative plate of cookies. My heart speeds up for a moment as I weigh the attributes of each cookie. I don't want to make a mistake and take the wrong cookie. That always happens, and I end up resenting my cookie and asking it why it can't be more like the other cookies. I finally settle on the biggest one, though it does seem to have fewer raisins than the others, a drawback that bothers me. Nonetheless, I secure my fingers around the cookie in a defensive death-grip, which means I'll be eating a cookie as well as a little bit of everything else I've touched today. Oh well. Satisfied with my foray into the kitchen, I dive back onto the rug. After a few seconds, the cookie has vanished and the monotony of this Tuesday afternoon resumes. "I have to move my car," Jocie says, breaking the silence. "Weren't we going to take it to the beach?" I ask. "We could," she answers, "I kind of want to sleep on the beach tonight. I don't know. Let's just get in the car and drive somewhere." The blue minivan is hurtling through the streets of Providence, looking very much like a suburban carpool gone wild. There is no destination, no end-point, no point at all. There is just aimless driving. I know that I've lacked four-wheel transportation for too long when, the moment we pull off from the curb, I feel an excited jolt in my stomach. Thea is driving; Jocie is in the passenger seat and Nicole and I are in the backseat. "Hey, do you guys feel like Nicole and I are your children?" I ask, jumping up and down in my seat like a nightmarish kid. "No," they say. Minutes later, we have our first mission. A beruit table. Surely, Nicole says, we will find an abandoned table on the streets of Providence. As I stare out the window in excited anticipation, I half expect to see a table with plastic cups and beer cans sitting in a driveway with a sign reading "Free-Please Help Yourself." We all jump out of the van, in this illusory moment of mine, and grab hold of our treasure, then load it into the back with proud tears of joy collecting in our eyes. That never happens. The dream fades, and we leave it behind, as we find ourselves wanderers once again. Then, a voice pierces the silence. "Look in that yard!" We let out a collective gasp. I have never seen anything quite so impressive. It towers, reaching into the sky with a proud, majestic air. This is the most beautiful, enormous, inflatable turkey I have ever seen. It's not like those unfortunate tacky Santa Clauses some people stake into the ground. No, this is a sophisticated turkey. This turkey has class. We come to a screeching halt, awed by the size and stature of the great nylon bird. A silence falls over us. There really is something quite remarkable about this turkey. We laugh, but at the same time, we respect the turkey. Noticing a police car behind us, we pull out. "Let's get on the highway," Nicole says. It isn't something we discuss. Thea just turns the wheel and swings us onto 95 heading south. She speeds up and now I am really starting to feel like we're on a jailbreak. Then, I start wondering how long this little jaunt is going to take. Don't blow off all your work and fuck yourself over, says a familiar voice in my head, don't be bad. I beg myself not to worry about it, but I don't have much control. The more anxious I get, the more blood rushes to my head and my shoulders tighten. I have this recurring feeling that I cannot let go of whatever it is I am holding in my shoulders. There seems to be something fatal about letting go, and yet, sometimes I am entirely capable. I have to write an article for the newspaper. I have books to read. If I don't do it, everything will crash, just crash down around me. Goddamn responsibility. I tell myself to forget it all, to just focus on the fact that we're driving away, away from all responsibility. It actually starts to work. It's already dark, and with my face pressed up to the glass window like those pathetic dogs you see waiting in parked cars, I see a flood of yellow and red lights. I start to wipe the window, but realize that it is the world outside that is smudged and blurry. The steady pulse of rush-hour traffic, the cause of homicidal rage for so many, actually soothes my nerves tonight. There is a sort of harmony to it. I lean back, once again floating in nothingness, but at the same time, I am moving. That is what I love about being in a car, the ability to be stationary and active at the same time. I glimpse the faces of people rushing home, staring straight in front of them, unblinking. There is something serene about glazed over faces. This, I think, is spontaneity. I should try this flying more often, this flying away, this flight from whatever lies behind. "We could go to the cape," Jocie suggests. "Actually, we could stay in my house," I say. "My parents wouldn't mind at all. But we wouldn't have keys." "How about Marissa's house?" "We're going to stay in her house when she's not even with us?" "Could we really be back in time for my class tomorrow morning?" "Yeah, we'd leave at like 7, be back at 9, or--" "How about---" "Guys, we've already passed the exit for the Cape." "Okay, let's get out of this state at least. Connecticut." "What's in Connecticut?" "My grandmother's house," Thea says. "We don't want to go stay with your grandma," I sigh, accidentally allowing a note of disgust to enter my voice. "She won't be there. She just died," Thea reminds me. (Shit, I think. Major faux pas). "So you're suggesting we stay in your dead grandmother's house. Does it at least have a hot tub?" "Yeah, it has a pool, a steam shower and a sauna. Her house is pimped." "Let's go to the dead grandma's house!" "Wait, isn't that going to make you feel weird?" "Not really," Thea says. "We don't have bathing suits." "Skinny dipping!" Thea exclaims. "So we're going to go skinny dipping in your dead grandma's Connecticut house?" I imagine us skinny dipping in a house filled with antiques and other disturbing grandmotherly items, like a porcelain unicorn or owl that sits there staring us down. We agree to hold out for something better. The music is blasting sufficiently to create a steady vibration in the car. We are all dancing. Others drive by us and enjoy a hearty chuckle. They think we are truly a sad sight, but we enjoy this sort of thing. I love car-dancing because no one expects you to be especially coordinated. You can make a fool of yourself dancing in the car, jumping up and down in your seat, and when the time comes for someone to accuse you of horrendous dancing, you just shrug and sigh, "It's so hard for me to dance in a car." We celebrate our first border-crossing, into Connecticut, with hugs, cheering, wild shrieking and general carrying-on. After refueling at a gas station and mournfully discussing the ascension of gas prices in our short lives, we drive over to a Super Stop and Shop across the street. For months now, I have been telling my friends about my strange yet deep passion for the "Triple S." We choose a grocery cart with a little red car attached to it, the kind meant for small children. While I find it impossible to fold my entire body into the car, I am able to slide one leg and one arm in with great ease and a certain level of smoothness. Now I am rolling down the aisles with, I am sure, a look of sheer, sheepish delight on my face. We start oohing and aahing as we pass endless shelves of snack food. We are overjoyed, yes, but also terrified, overwhelmed. We glide down aisle after aisle, critiquing and drooling over what we see, but the cart remains empty. The tension of our indecisiveness builds to a breaking point. Finally, I get out of my little red car in front of the Flipz. These are the chocolate covered pretzels I used to buy daily, in high school, before play rehearsal. Unable to loosen my grasp on the shiny blue bag or temper the sudden rush of nostalgia, I toss the bag into the cart and extend my arms upwards in proud triumph. Thea is now sitting on top of the red car. She looks like a giant awkward baby up there. In an interesting exhibit of social psychology, Thea has also acquired a certain air of entitlement and power now that she sits perched atop the mini red car. "Jocie, go get me a pear," our newly-crowned queen orders. Jocie, who is not on the little red car, must go and fetch a pear. We all panic as a Triple S employee approaches. I start to feel incredibly guilty about my lack of respect for the establishment, my juvenile behavior, my--- "Hey! You're riding on the top of the car," he exclaims, flashing a wide, genuine smile. We giggle nervously and then smile back in appreciation. That, I think to myself, is human interaction the way it should be. After an hour in a Super Stop and Shop in Connecticut on a Tuesday night, we hit the open road again. We are wending our way through a residential neighborhood just outside of New Haven when, suddenly, we are confronted by another oversized inflatable turkey. "They are so awesome," we all agree. I cannot help but think that the turkeys are a sign, drawing us further and further away from all responsibility and familiarity. Someone takes a picture. Having paid our respects, we continue on. We are about to seek out various friends at Yale when I see a green sign with an arrow that reads FANTASY OF LIGHTS. I am immediately intrigued. "What's that?" No one is familiar with the Fantasy of Lights. "We have to go find it," Nicole says. "Follow those signs," I bark at the driver. We swerve suddenly off the main road and follow the arrows. As we drive, we discuss the possible meanings of this strange term. A look-out for star sighting? An amusement park? A club? A sketchy "fantasy" establishment? More and more signs appear pointing us in the direction of the Fantasy. In fact, the signs are everywhere, beckoning to us, taunting us. At the end of one road, we see police cars littered all over the place. "Oh no. The po!" Thea shrieks. "It was a trap." We laugh nervously. "Look," I say, "There's another sign!" We roll cautiously by the police car convention and follow the Fantasy of Lights arrows. After several more minutes, we come to a cul-de-sac entrance to a park that is closed for the night. This park and its lookout space, we realize, is the Fantasy of Lights. It is a bittersweet moment. We revel in our victorious finding yet bemoan the injustice of our exclusion from the park. I don't really care, though, because of the thrill of the chase. We loop around the cul-de-sac and make our way back through the dark quiet streets. "We're only like an hour from the city." "How great would that be, if we just went into the city on a random Tuesday night?" "We could stay with my cousin, Stacy," Jocie says, "and go out." We are going to New York. "Oh my god, guys, we're going to New York." "On Tuesday." "We're going to fucking New York on fucking Tuesday." "Yeah, can you believe we're going to fucking New York?" "And on a Tuesday!" Three minutes pass. "I just realized--we're going to New York!" "We're going to fucking New York! I just remembered too!" This is what it feels like to say screw it, over and over again all night. This is what it feels like to let go of something--not everything (God no)--but something. And it isn't fatal. And nothing crashes. This is what it feels like to leave your life in a messy pile in your dorm room and just say I'm not dealing with this now. "We're almost there. We're so close!" "Wait, where do I turn, shit, fuck, where do I turn?" "Left." "Right." "Left?" We turn. "Oh shit, you guys, shit, we're headed for. . .New Jersey." "No!" "Oh gross." "I've never been to New Jersey!" Nicole is actually excited about our detour into the Garden State. "Nicole," I say, "Your optimism is getting irritating right now." "Wait. What's that smell?" "That's what New Jersey smells like." We call Jocie's cousin Stacy, but she says she doesn't know how to get into New York, she only lives in it. "I always take planes," she explains. After another failed attempt, we decide to ask for directions. We all scan the road for stops that look unconducive to random attack or homicide. I have a brief, frightening image of someone holding a knife to our throats as we desperately cry, "we just want to know how to get out of New Jersey!" Then, looming before us like a great temple, stands a Marriott Hotel. Acting in accordance with a hastily-sketched plan, we stroll casually into the hotel like entitled guests. This is a really nice Marriot, I think. I mean, I've seen my share of Marriotts but this. This is it. This is class. There are fountains. Big ones. I love fountains. And real, living plants. I would have guessed fake plants. But these. These are beauties. Who would have thought New Jersey? I was too quick to judge. This place is spectacular. We approach the concierge for directions into the city. "Um," he says, his eyes glancing slowly at each of us, "um, hold on one second." He disappears. "Oh great," we say, "he doesn't know either." Moments later, however, he returns with a map and a set of typed directions. We thank him profusely. Before leaving the Marriot, we capture New Jersey on film. It is one thing to end up in New York when we set out to move the car, but quite another miracle to actually find a parking spot once we get here. "You guys, we're in fucking New York." "On a fucking Tuesday night." "And we found a fucking parking spot right away." We lock all the doors, check to make sure we have locked all the doors, and then hop out. Stacy, who is somewhat of a Manhattan socialite, lives in Soho. I love how crowded everything feels due to the overabundance of little cafes, markets and boutiques. But at the same time, there is a solitary feel, as I look at large empty spots of sidewalk. It is surprisingly quiet but, then, it is a Tuesday night. "So, you guys want to go out?" Stacy asks. "Yes," we respond. "We're not exactly dressed," Jocie says. We all pause to assess the situation. No one is dressed, by any stretch of the imagination, for the New York nightlife. Thea is a particular problem, with her socks and Adidas athletic sandals. Nicole is wearing sneakers. She looks like she's going out for a run with the dog. I look down at my jeans and blue short-sleeved shirt. The shirt could have been worse, I think, imagining myself in an oversized childish sweatshirt that is a prominent feature of my leisure collection, but why do I have to be wearing these jeans? Of all the jeans, God, why? To make matters worse, Stacy isn't exactly a ragamuffin. Actually, she is a professional shoe-buyer for Burgdorf-Goodman which means her life is split between clothes and the New York social scene. I am not prepared for either. Since she is a shoe buyer, I assume she is probably judging my shoes by now. I am wearing Pumas, which are generally considered a cool shoe I believe, but not for clubbing. Then again, shoes are probably the least of our attire problems this evening. I thought we were just going to park the car! "Which jacket makes me look less like a three-year old, "Jocie wants to know. We all look away. "Oh, it's fine," Stacy assures us. "We're just going to a little place around the corner." The "little place around the corner," is a swank, candle-lit bar called Room Eighteen. We look out of place, but Stacy escorts us to a long table where her friends smoking and drinking wine. We swap introductions, promptly forget each other's names, and agree to order two bottles of white wine. I am feeling guilty about not calling my parents back earlier in the day. I don't even have my cell phone with me, which means I have fallen off the planet as far as they are concerned. They probably won't call back, anyway, but. . . The stiff bar of guilt lowers onto my shoulders. I start spinning images in my head of my parents calling over and over again, unable to sleep, imagining me face down in a Providence gutter. The prospect of alcohol is inviting. The more wine consumed, the lesser the divide between the two groups of friends becomes. I myself become quite chatty as the room begins a pleasant spin. Ooh, I like spinning. In the middle of one humorous anecdote, my arms flail out wildly, sending my glass of wine flying all over Thea's shirt. There is a moment of disgusted shock, then laughter. "That's me," I explain to my new acquaintances, "I always do that." "She always does that," my friends repeat. "We're going to go another place," Stacy's friend Gil says. "Can you girls handle that?" "Player, please," Thea says. We all pile into Gil's Mini Cooper and drive a couple of minutes to a club called the Pink Elephant. Apparently Gil "knows people," so we get in, no questions asked. I am amused by the sheer ridiculousness of my presence here. But I'm a dork, I keep thinking, I am not this cool. The Pink Elephant is long, narrow and dark, with squiggly-shaped leather couches all around. The patrons are in their 20s or early 30s. A few are dancing, but most are engaged in serious, muted conversation with one or two friends. I find their cool, sophisticated mannerisms--leaning in with one hand cupping the chin, sitting up with perfect posture while daintily sipping a mixed drink--kind of depressing. Even their relaxation is an extension of social decorum, I think. Their glances invariably fall upon us, four college-students clad, for the most part, in jeans and t-shirts. Well, I think, I'll never see them again. But what if I do? My mind starts pumping out scenario after scenario in which these anonymous drink-sippers emerge to be important people in my life. Weren't you that girl, they ask, the one who looked out of place and ridiculous in the club? Sipping a cranberry-vodka that I am not sure is going to stay down, I feel a familiar sinking feeling. It is the feeling of self-imposed isolation. Everyone around me seems to be moving in a harmony I have excluded myself from. I am nothing but an imposter, seconds away from exposure and ridicule. I feel fraudulent in this place, and not just because I won't be twenty-one for a year and a half. I drink faster. It's amazing, I think, how I can experience the lightness of happiness and the heaviness of anxiety at the exact same time. One is no more real than the other. I can't separate them, so-- I decide to embrace the theme of the night, and break out my signature dance moves. I dance like an insane person, but like a hot, fun-loving insane person. My heart speeds up and I let myself play in the excitement. The patrons are surprised, but amused. Soon we are all dancing. I am not lost in the moment (I never am, I'm always thinking) but at least I feel like I'm moving. When it is time to leave, Gil drives us back to Stacy's neighborhood. In the car, we all delight in listening to a message from one of our other roommates who thought we would "be back soon." "You are not in New York," she says breathlessly, "I'm so jealous. I can't believe that you guys are in fucking New York." We laugh about the fact that her stunned reaction is so similar to our own. No one admits it, but I know that deep down we all highly enjoy the fact that she is jealous. Or maybe that's just me. Back in Stacy's neighborhood, I duck into a market for some anti-hangover staples: a massive sandwich and a giant bottle of water. We walk like zombies back into the apartment. In a matter of minutes, Nicole and Thea are asleep on the couches, which means Jocie and I get the queen-sized bed. I stand in the kitchen dutifully eating a sandwich larger than my head while taking intermittent gulps of water. Soon Jocie and Stacy are asleep too. I probably look like a creep as I wander stealthily around the apartment, trying not to wake anyone, in search of Advil. Even on this let-loose themed night, I try to do everything in my power to avoid the evil hangover. I check every cupboard imaginable. What kind of home doesn't have a bottle of Advil? That's just sick, twisted. Finally, I stumble upon a small basket with a bottle of Tylenol. Close enough. I pick it up, and holding it in my palm, stare in confusion at the warning: "For Hospital or Government Use Only." What the hell does this mean? I have many questions. First of all, why does Stacy have this special Tylenol? If she takes it, it must not be lethal, right? More importantly, though, what does the government do with Tylenol? My mind wanders to some sort of torture chamber featuring the violent stuffing of Tylenol down the prisoner's throat. Then I get an image of George Bush and his cronies sitting in the oval office, laughing and carrying on while they pop pills, slapping their knees and exclaiming, Government use only! Realizing I'm doing that over-thinking thing again, I turn the bottle upside down and drop two tablets into my hand, then bring them to my lips, swallow, and retreat to the bedroom. Oh! What a beautiful queen-sized bed! Delicious. I am obsessed with this bed. It's all white. Oh shit it's all white. What if I throw up? What if I'm that guest? The one who comes and vomits all over the white sheets? I trot back into the living room, pick up my backpack and place it strategically by the side of the bed with the zipper completely open. Then I position my body on the side of the bed. The plan is, if I wake up needing to throw up, I will do it quickly and swiftly into my backpack, dispose of the evidence, and go back to sleep. Yes, that will work. The cell phone alarms go off in a sickening chorus at six a.m. I roll over and see Jocie face-down at my side. It is not clear if she will ever rise again. I consider going back to sleep and claiming I heard no alarm. The possibility of staying the day was discussed, after all. It was a funny conversation we had last night about that possibility. No one had a problem with essentially running away with no plans and no definite shelter to get drunk in New York but the idea of missing classes--that concerns us deeply. That, we think, is recklessness. Something like missing class needs to be planned. It's that kind of incongruity that characterizes us, I guess, and made this trip possible. But if I didn't hear the alarm-- Nicole, chipper as ever, bounces in to rouse us from our slumber. I walk out of the bedroom and see Thea. The night did not treat her well. She looks like she spent the night in a dumpster, which I suppose is possible. Her eyes look up at me in dazed confusion. "Good morning," I say. "Eh," she says. There is no packing because there was no unpacking. We sling our bags over our shoulders, scribble an incoherent thank-you note, and depart into the darkness we arrived in. Just as we get on 95 leaving the city behind, we see the sun rising. The sunrise and I rarely cross paths so this is a momentous occasion. We all twist and turn in our seats to stare at the orange mass bubbling over the horizon. The light dripping over the city makes it an entirely different place from the night before. I am sitting in the front seat now, so someone shoves a camera in my hands and demands I take a picture. I start snapping madly. Every time I press down on the button, the sly little sun makes a sudden move. We all act as if this is the first sun to ever rise, and we're going to capture it on film if it kills us, dammit. Everyone is talking about the Pink Elephant, and the endless stream of free drinks. Yes, that was nice. But I am thinking, it is this, this moment. This moment of frivolous nothing turned something. It's one of those rare moments when you actually see happiness, right in front of you, just sort of sitting there, letting you reach out and touch it for once. It's fleeting, but if you're really happy, you are too. In a few minutes, we will pull up in front of Brown University and drop Jocie off at Engineering 51: Electricty and Magnetism. Then we will all go to our classes as if this was just another day of school. For now, though, it still feels like we're driving away, away from everything.