Safety is not something that is tangible. For me, safety is a
feeling you get when you know deep in your heart that everything is going to be
okay. I have a spot where I go to when I need that feeling of safety, and it
never fails me. My car is my safe spot. In my car I can scream along with Steve
Perry and be comforted by the fact that I know he won’t judge me. We sing and
laugh and cry together, and no one has to know, because it’s my safe spot.
I drive a 2000 Hyundai Elantra, my dad’s old car. To this
day I remember my sisters and I sneaking into the back seat and hiding there
until he came in from work each day. I remember the clean smelling grey floor
that we pressed our faces against, trying to be as small as possible. When my
older sister turned 16 the dear friend was passed on to her, and the dear front
seat was passed on to me. Now in the front I could memorize all the gadgets,
and mess with the radio. I only retreated to the back on the days when I
couldn’t bear the upchucked fruit salad smell fuming from the air fresheners
supposedly making the car “smell better”.
But I don’t have to live with that smell anymore, because it’s not her
car. As I get back into my car the grey floor doesn’t have that clean smell any
more. It smells like burning hair which is just as bad as the upchucked fruit
salad but I can’t expect much more out of a car that has lasted over a decade.
The front of my car stays relatively clear; partially
because I don’t like clutter and partially because my driving instructor told
me I get distracted by the details, and after failing the first time I decided
to listen to him and get rid of all the details in my car. This might have not
been the details he was referring to but the clean car passed me so that must
be something. Right under the gear shifter is my collection of sunglasses in
any color and personality imaginable, each lens turning me into something
different; a rocker, a movie star, an FBI agent. In one fluid motion I shift
and grab at anyone of these personalities. My thumbs press against the red
paint marks smearing my steering wheel. One day when I was learning how to parallel
park my mom, seeing neon red road markers— which unbeknownst to us had just
been painted – sticking out of the frozen ground, thought of a brilliant plan
and told me to pull over. She took four markers and rearranged them into a
perfect rectangle that I was somehow supposed to guide my car into. Getting
back into the car and telling me to just “go with my gut” she soon realized
that wasn’t the best choice of words and frantically grabbed at the wheel,
which scared me to death. We laughed for hours when she let go and we noticed
the neon red paint marks in the shape of gripping hands. The marks make me
happy like my multiple colorful CDs do. Collecting dust during the day they anxiously
wait, when other cars are around, for the sweet serenity of night when they can
blast my ear drums out but stopping immediately once we see those headlights
beaming through me and into the jungle of my back seat.
The jungle of my back seat, unlike other jungles, is one
that you don’t want to explore and I can hardly remember anyone who has had to.
This, of course, is a very good thing because my back seat is so full of junk
and baggage that one would suffocate. Anything that is even the slightest bit
unappealing or stressful gets thrown in the back because I don’t want to deal
with it. The once clean carpet smell is replaced with the smell of receipt
paper and fast food bags. I desperately try to forget the existence of the
horrific back but the mirrors have a different plan in mind, flashing images at
me throughout my journeys. My Olympic weight training tool otherwise known as
my backpack used to be their favorite one to show me. I hated it. Unfortunately,
my mirrors didn’t care forcing me to put it in the same hidden spot every day.
A deep cavity lies in that hidden spot— 3rd cushion all the way to
the left— where I prop it almost as if my car is taking in some of the load
with me telling me that it cares. Sometimes the mirrors catch me off guard and
I get trapped looking at them letting memories that I want to forget come back
as the sad lonely spot of wetness blatantly stares back at me. With my face pressed against the seat— not for
reason of fun filled surprise though— I released my pain on that first day of
supposedly a “better life”. Each tear fall just led me to a sadder state. I was
sad and alone and all I could do was breathe in the dirt filled cushion and
cry. I want to forget all the emotion that caused those tears to come but I
can’t because the evidence is there staring at me every time I get into my car.
I remember crawling into the back just being hopeless and crying into the seat
wishing it could do something for me. Only now do I realize how much it did for
me that day, it gave me a replacement for the shoulders I lacked to cry on.
My car is my safe spot because I can be the person I need
to be at the moment there. That person might be Steve Perry’s duet partner or
just a girl who needs to cry because they had a bad day. Unlike the world it
doesn’t judge me. It lets me sing as loud as I want and cry as hard as I please
always being constant and isn’t that what a safe spot is? A place that is
constant where you can be yourself? That’s what my car is for me and was for my
sister and dad. Unlike them though, I accept for who it is— a smelly, old,
loving car— because it accepts me for who I am—
an emotional, loud, loving girl— and embraces me in its safety.
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