Remembering milestones by mile markers
January 30, 2024 | Story by Avery Kremposky | Graphic/Illustrations by Delia Sauer
The mechanic from the tire shop down the road who called me last February spoke a memorable, if eerie, line:
“Is it possible there’s somebody living around here who hates you?” he said with a raspy voice.
I jerked my shoulders back and sat up an inch straighter.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, trying to remain civil and collected like I’ve seen my mother do on infinite occasions.
“Ex-boyfriends? Jealous peers? Former friends?” he rattled off matter-of-factly, as if waiting for me to have a sudden epiphany.
I still couldn’t think of any sworn enemies, but I do remember thinking that this guy didn’t need my life story to fix the flat tire I brought to his shop earlier that morning. He continued his tirade before I could answer. Apparently, they found a broad gash across my back tire during the inspection.
“So you’re saying somebody slashed it?” I tried to clarify.
“All I’m saying is a piece of debris would never make a cut this clean,” he said.
So I came back to the shop.
As soon as I walked through the doors, I could feel the weight of stares and silence. When I came face-to-face with the man from the phone, he looked at me with a contradicting gaze. His lips were pursed in the type of straight line that usually denotes seriousness, but it was balanced by his eyes, which were soft with sympathy. I immediately felt that he probably had daughters of his own, and I relaxed.
I relished in that silent bliss before he announced the price.
“It’s gonna be $200 for the new tire,” he said.
If he really did have any daughters, they’d probably never experienced my level of adversity behind the wheel.
Nearly everything I’ve learned about life I’ve figured out while sitting in the front seat of my light blue 2011 Hyundai Sonata. With every mile burned, the girl with her hands on the ever-peeling wheel became unrecognizable — even to herself. I think the only thing that has fully witnessed my complete stumble into adulthood is the old car that seems to gain a new quirk every day.
At 16, I sat comfortably with the idea that failure can be everything all at once: unavoidable, harrowing, liberating and worthwhile.
I should have known I was doomed to years of car misfortune when the state of Florida tried to keep me off the road in the first place. When I walked back into the DMV after my driving test, my mom’s smile was gleaming brighter than all of the fluorescent lights in the building combined.
“How’d it go?” she mouthed silently, but somehow, still loud and clear. I shrugged — my instructor walked inside without giving me my results. Still, I wore a shrewd grin because I knew I did everything right. I always did everything right.
In the middle of the test, we stopped on a narrow road where the proctor said it would be okay to make a four-point turn rather than the standard three-point one. I think I laughed a phony, breathy chuckle — then did the three-point turn anyway.
When the middle-aged woman plodded back to the lobby to escort my mom and me to her desk, I could only think about the first place I would drive to that day. Maybe I’d bring home lunch for everybody or take my brother to soccer practice — not because I was some saint, but just because I could. Completely lost in thought, I didn’t realize the instructor must have been droning on for some time now. The way I reentered her orbit at the worst possible moment was cartoon-esque.
“Unfortunately, that is grounds for immediate disqualification,” she tried to say benevolently, even though it came out more deadpan.
I had completely missed what she had said, just like I missed the left turn lane that leads back to the DMV. As my eyes lost focus with tears, I remember feeling my mom’s elbow between my top two ribs, which meant “save it for the car.”
My mom asked me if I wanted to drive home. I gave her the silent treatment for the rest of the day. The narrative where I was imperfect was not a story I wanted to be a part of.
I only stopped crying the next morning when I went to take my second driving test — the one I passed with ease. When I drove my car alone for the first time, the warm air snaking through my open windows and the whipping breeze turning my cheeks pink, the previous day faded silently into my rearview mirror.
At 17, I discovered my ability to be my own worst enemy.
Note to self: In a race against the clock and curfew, never forget to turn your car lights off. You will wake up for school the next morning and your battery will be dead.
At 18, I made a clear-cut distinction between the time to keep it together and the time to break down — both of which are equally important.
When I got into the accident, two things were on the horizon: the brisk air of late October and the outline of downtown Jacksonville. The car one lane over merged into my right side — first subtly, like a child’s finger dragging lightly across my passenger door. Then it was with enough brawn to snap my mirror off.
I’m not sure who turned on my hazard lights and guided me to the shoulder of the highway, because it didn’t feel like me. I was too busy contorting my face into something wide-eyed and bewildered. I took that hostile glare and focused it through my window like my anger could condense into a beam that burned a hole in her chest.
“Don’t freak out but…” was what I managed to say to my mom on the phone before I heard a rapid succession of high-pitched knocks on my window. In my distress, I forgot accidents usually involve more than one person.
As I watched the woman’s hands jump and twirl in a thousand different dances and listened to her slow but ravaged voice force out one insult after the next, all I wanted to do was cry. I wanted to flood the roads with my tears so she would realize I was too young and too apologetic for her condemnation.
I was on the verge of a Noah’s Ark reenactment when it hit me: I wasn’t the one in the wrong. And also, my mom was still on the phone.
“Really, don’t freak out,” I said. “I’ll call you back.”
I heard the utter of my first and middle name on the other end of the receiver before I hung up.
I spent the next hour putting on the best performance of my life, like I was an actress who’d been studying her lines for months. I deflected the hurl of offenses with grace and managed to keep my inflection unwavering when I told the police what happened. I carried myself in a way that was perfectly balanced: half polite and half spiteful. Since nobody could show up for me, I was going to show up for myself.
When I finally sat down alone in my car, I wasn’t even upset anymore. I was impressed. I had the startling realization that I was aging — that I had lost the toddler-like urge to throw myself on the floor and scream about everything that bothered me. I felt equipped enough to leave my youth in the dust.
When I called my mom back, I started sobbing immediately. Perhaps I would never cross the threshold of seniority. Maybe life was more like maturity purgatory. All I knew was that it felt good to smile and it felt good to cry.
At 19, I unearthed my ability to be put first.
The sun was beating through my windshield with such force I thought it was going to cook the groceries I had just put in my passenger seat. My forehead was syrupy with sweat. But every time I pushed my ignition, I was met with a couple of exaggerated gurgles and then ear-splitting silence.
A few hours later, having dropped my car off at the shop, I parked my little brother’s car in the garage connected to my apartment — claiming it as my own only a month after he got his license. That is the kind of guilt that will eat your skin for breakfast, your nerves for lunch and your heart for dinner.
I felt like I was robbing him of his coming-of-age. He was supposed to be ditching school, picking up his friends and leaving his lights on when he nearly missed his curfew.
I must’ve apologized every day. Twice on the weekends.
“It’s okay,” he swore. “Mom lets me pick the music in her car…and I love you.”
At 20, I saw a perfect image of the type of friend I wanted to be.
There are so many things I could tell you about my best friend. She’s spunky and adventurous and beautifully unruly — but she would never miss class. If the doctors told her she had 24 hours to live, I’m positive she’d be spending some of it on campus.
I called her from the back corner of a minuscule car repair shop, crying because I hadn’t slept the night before and nobody knew how many hours it would take to patch the hole where I’d gotten a nail stuck in my tire.
“I’m not doing anything right now,” she said as I heard her rustling around for her student I.D. — the one that would let her take the bus from campus back to our apartment. “I’ll pick you up so you can take a nap.”
It was a Monday at 12:36 p.m. She was supposed to be in class.
At 21, I grabbed optimism by the hand and squeezed it until it was colorless.
When I got into the second accident, at least I was in Orlando. My back bumper was falling off, but my mom was there with open arms in 20 minutes sharp. I wouldn’t make it back to Gainesville until 3 a.m., and I had to steal my brother’s car for the second time.
I could smell the sourness of his soccer cleats rotting in the back seat, but I was okay — and that’s all that mattered.
And now at 22, I’m basking in every moment, every person and every memory.
The stories and catchy lessons that come with my first and only car come at a price — one that can only be paid with the miles on my odometer. Every digit closer to 100,000 feels like a sharp reminder that time is finite. People (and cars) aren’t suited to stay with us forever, and that’s something I’m learning to be okay with. The only thing I can do is be here, right now.
My car’s inevitable expiration can’t stop me from trying to squeeze in a couple more lessons. After all, it’s still running on black electrical tape and a finicky FM transmitter. On the cusp of change, I will not fret until I’m in the thick of it.
Perhaps the last lesson my 2011 Hyundai Sonata will teach me is how to say goodbye, but I don’t think I’m ready to learn about that just yet.
