Sunday night, I had procrastinated long enough.
I had spent the day being industrious, immersed in story-planning and also weighing my options for housing in San Francisco in a year, which were painfully restricted for the sheer lack of monetary resources I have at my disposal. But it’s fine—stuff works out. And now I have a more concrete foundation with which to start planning, so things are generally looking up.
I thought it was high time I bought some mochi (doughy rice cake with red bean/taro paste in its center), and I figured I might as well refurnish the fridge with milk while I was at it. And I had a car, so I could just go and retrieve said comfort food to help me push through the remainder of my homework for the evening.
So I found my roommate and we mounted Andromeda, my little white 1999 Saturn, which I had completely paid for up front just three weeks ago. I don’t mind its quirks so much because it runs well enough. After overcoming its wayward glove compartment, which was refusing to close after I had opened it to retrieve something, I finally settled into the driver’s seat. I stuck the key in the ignition and turned it.
Confused, I paused, turned it back, then tried again.
Nothing responded. No clicking, no revving. Absolutely no response whatsoever.
“Are you serious?” I laughed sharply, trying it again with a greater amount of desperation.
Surprise gave way to anger. Seriously. I’ve only had this car for three weeks. I bought the thing with my own money. I had so much faith in that car. And I’m sorely awaiting my next paycheck. I’m saving up to travel—a trip I have been looking forward to for a good year and a half. How much money would I have to spend on this car? Would it jeopardize my finances for my trip to Costa Rica?
I called my friend with a car to see if she was available to jump it—which was a dumb idea, I realized, because I wouldn’t have wanted to drive it anywhere anyway—because it would likely leave me stranded wherever I took it.
As I tried to remember how to jump a car without getting electrocuted, I received a text from my dad to call home when I had time. I had texted him about the car.
I called and, as I explained the situation, assuring him I wasn’t stranded, I fought to keep my voice steady. I was so freaking angry. I wanted to demand an explanation from my silent little car. It just sat there, quiet, unresponsive, unapologetic. It should have looked downright penitent, but of course, it’s a car, so that wasn’t happening.
And it wasn’t really the car’s fault, I guess. I had just desperately hoped something like this wouldn’t take place. Because it was the last thing I could afford. An acutely disconcerting event I pray is not an indicator of its performance in the future when I can afford it even less.
My dad thought it was the battery, which I had been a little too flustered to even think about. I had just assumed my car had called it quits. He offered to bring me a new one next weekend, meaning I don’t have to pay for it, and I’ll learn a bit about cars for future reference—which kind of puts my mind at ease.
My friend offered to drive us to where we needed to go, but while we were at a gas station headed through town, her water pump started leaking a rather alarming amount, so we had to turn back (she has an old car too). So I gave up on excursions for the time being and made myself coffee, having received a whiplash reminder that unexpected things happen. Stupid, inconvenient, last-thing-you-can-tolerate-right-now things.
But alas. Life goes on. And it generally turns out all right in the end, wherever that may be.
I shouldn’t freak out so much.