Snowy Drive or When Will I Ever Grow Up?

I don't drive. I never have. It is always something that I consider learning, but never seriously pursue. Not driving has been both a blessing and a bind. In recent years people have started praising me for not driving as I am not contributing to global warming. This is an unintentional benefit, and while I am happy I am not harming anyone, I can't claim any deliberate sacrifice to be revered.

One of the biggest consequences of not driving is that I have spent a lot of my life in the passengers seat, staring out the window and daydreaming while someone else does the hard work. In this sense, there is nothing noble about my not driving. It is a selfish choice. Once I heard a man brag to a friend about how he was excited that his girlfriend didn't drive-- I wasn't sure why he was so excited. Did he imagine it signified her passivity? Was he thrilled by the novelty of it? Personally, I always think it is a rather shameful thing to admit to new dates, tantamount to admitting an inability to take care of myself.

A benefit of being a passenger, though, is that I have met many people through needing rides to and from places. This was especially true when I lived in Massachusetts. I went to college in Western Mass, but liked to go to rock concerts in Boston, Cambridge and New York. I met many people who turned into good friends from posting on online bulletin boards to find rides to shows. I always shared the price of gas and promised people a mix tape or mix cd and some snacks in return for their generosity.

I started hanging out with a much older man this way. He was a bit of a sad case, if I appraise his situation clearly. He was in his late thirties, single, unemployed and most of his thoughts seemed to be concerned with contemporary rock music. He was also sad about his last girlfriend having left him four years before. Four years before, I had been sixteen. I didn't really understand his sadness, but there was something compelling about it. I wanted to understand it, the same way that I wanted to understand Tolstoy and Lotte Lenya's voice.

One winter night, after seeing a show of bands from D.C. at a famous basement club in Cambridge we started the two hour drive back home. It was snowing and while this made the ride beautiful, I could tell it made him tense. I was excited after the show, but because I didn't want to compound his stress, I was quiet. He had decided to drive on the back roads, and I didn't understand why. The highway would have been salted and plowed, but these roads were slippery and untouched. At times the road was buried under the snow and I could tell he was just guessing which way to point the car.

What had initially been light snow, turned into something much heavier. The countryside was unlit, save for his headlights, and I was mesmerized by way the deluge of falling white snow seemed to curve towards the car. His car always smelled like spilled coffee and this particular evening it also smelled like donut frosting. He put on a CD by Smog. It was the first time I had heard Bill Callahan's music. The snow seemed to be dancing down to the irregular rhythms of the music, and now, and I expect for evermore, listening to his early guitar playing conjures white flakes against a dark sky in my mind.

He pulled off the road, but kept the engine running; he kept the lights and music on.

"We need to stop here for a bit. It is too hard to drive." He said. I wanted to get home, but I didn't want to tell him this, so I said nothing.

"Right there. That's an abandoned paper mill." He told me. I stared through the snow and almost could make out the gray silhouette of a large building. "It's on the river. They used the water as energy. I used to play here as a kid."

I couldn't imagine him as a child. The longer I stared at the mill, the less distinct the shape became. The snow became paper pouring from the broken windows. The mill seemed to grow in size. I couldn't tell what were the trees around it and what was part of the building. He got out of the car and walked towards the mill.

I watched his back in the headlights. He was tall and too thin. Like someone who just lives on rice. I know he ate more than he seemed, but when I visited his house he only had a box of macaroni and cheese on the shelf and a unopened cloth bag of white rice. He was soon swallowed by the darkness. I didn't know what I would do if he didn't come back. It wouldn't be light for about six hours and, despite having the keys in the car, I didn't know how to drive for help. My canvas shoes would not offer any protection against the snow and I didn't want to leave the car.

During the thirty minutes he was gone, I cycled through worry and a disciplined optimism. I made plans. I'd stay in the car until morning and then walk on the road to the next town and explain the situation. I didn't want to look for his body on my own.

He came back, though, his lank wet hair frozen in places. His blue lips were shaped into an unfamiliar smile. He said that the snow was now falling lightly enough for him to drive me home. I felt more alone when he returned than when he gone. I asked if I could help him in any way, and he turned the music up.