See Ya

I gave back our apartment keys today. This is the first time I've moved for no reason.

I mean, I moved to go to college, and then again when they were gonna tear down Cheverton, and then to L.A. to make my place in the world. And sure, it's not a bad thing; the new place is bigger, and nicer, and has more fun places for the cats to explore.

But it's weird, you know, to suddenly pull up roots and change addresses and enlist people with pickups and sign leases and paint the walls and everything. To go to all this effort, just out of the blue. If I was moving cross-country I'm sure I'd have pared down my possessions. But across town? Hell, just throw everything in the trunk!

TCF tells the story of moving across campus at college -- he'd just throw stuff in his car, thinking "it's not even a block away, I'll just make as many trips as I need." He didn't bother to Tetris all his stuff together efficiently. So then he's trying to unpack, running up and down stairs like a sucker, you know, with handfuls of pens or whatever, and it still took forever.

But I digress.

There's something about spackling. About covering up all the holes I've made in the walls over the last couple of years. About purposefully trying to erase any evidence of my having been there. About rendering the last few years moot. About covering my tracks. About erasing my history. About starting fresh.

But not quite, because when I pull the screws from the wall, a little plaster buckles outwards ... and even when I sand down the spackle, a little mosquito bite bump remains in the wall.

If I scratch it, my fingers are dusted with plaster. Dust flies as I sand down the wall. Unconsciously, I scratch my nose. Had I been pulled over, I'd look like a cokehead. A cokehead with a trunk full of guns, no less.

That little mosquito bite, or that stain that barely still shows through a new layer of paint, that will last a day and then vanish when they repaint again -- that's my legacy there. The fuzzy corners I put into the cabinets so the doors don't slam. The screws I put into the refrigerator shelf. The wire I used to fix the chain in the toilet tank. I was here. And damn it, I made this place better.

There's something about leaving a place changed.

About looking at the impressions in the carpet where the couch was, or the table, or the bookshelf, and knowing that the impressions won't come out.

About knowing that if I come back next week, the walls will be repainted, the carpet replaced, but maybe, someone soon will check their mail and find something addressed to me ... and briefly, perhaps, they'll wonder:

Who lived here?

Drivin' Like an Old Person

Tonight, everyone passed me on the freeway.

Tonight, I drove like an old person. (Except I went around the Santa Monica Farmer's Market, not through it.)

My hands at ten and two on the wheel, firmly within my own lane.

I think my driving is like my handwriting. Quick, loose and scribbly. But I'm an artist, and when I want to take the time, I can make my handwriting look perfect and neat. Tonight, my driving was like that.

I'd like to become a stunt driver. So I could become an artist with the car, too.

The roads are empty at three in the morning. The freeways are wide.

In a metropolitan area with a population of about nine million, you pass people you'll never see again. And so you wonder.

What's the story with the skinhead cab driver? Is his forehead scarred from a knife fight or a can opener? His scowl borne of racist hatred or rapper thuggishness? Was his career choice dicated by family tradition, maybe, or did his research grant fall through?

And, more interestingly, what's the story with the sad-looking girl in his back seat, who's watching the streetlights pass without really seeing them?

The schizo homeless guy at Edgewood & La Brea bows to you sometimes. Sometimes he's there at four AM. Sometimes he's gone at eleven PM. I thought that was weird, his inconsistency, until I realized he didn't have a watch.

What's the story with the slumped figure, sleeping on a countertop inside the Toluca Lake post office at 2:40 AM?

The freeways are wide and empty. It's easy to not notice how fast you're going. Last night, I got a ticket.

I saw someone pulled over earlier last night. Pulled over on an onramp to the 101. "Wouldn't that suck," I thought, "if I got pulled over tonight?"

I sped on. "Wow, I'm going pretty fast," I think I even thought. "Good thing that cop was way back there."

If I had a baseball card, it would have stats on the back:

Years of driving: 8, including learner's permit.

Major, car-totaling accidents: 3
Number that were my fault: 0
(Although I guess I could drive more defensively. Next time I'll be more assertive while waiting at a red light, and maybe a police chase won't terminate in my trunk.)

Minor accidents: 6
Number that were my fault: 4

Fender benders: 10, that I can remember.
Number that were my fault: 9

Pulled over by police: 8, plus 1 red-light camera.
Resulted in a ticket: 6
Pulled over within the last month: 3
Resulted in a ticket: 2
That I am going to contest in court: 1

Parking tickets: 6 or so, but nobody counts those.

Insurance premium: (whimper)

The worst part is, though, the thought that maybe I should put limits on myself. What I mean is, all through school you're taught that you can be whatever you want to be, do whatever you want, all that b.s. ... and one of the things that I want to accomplish in my life is getting a pilot's license.

Well, if I'm this bad a driver, maybe I shouldn't even attempt a pilot's license. I mean, why risk it? I hope I'd be a good pilot, since it's an entirely different skill -- just like no matter how bad a driver I am, I'm still a decent editor. I hope I'd pay close attention, and be very safe.

But the consequences would be so great, maybe I shouldn't allow myself that opportunity to fail.

I've Tried to Deny It

I'd hate for it to be my destiny. Tonight, when again this trait reared its demon head and spat acid in my eye, I felt nothing but anger -- at myself, for failing.

For what it's worth, I'd like to disown it, like my felonious cousins.

But as much as it pains me ...

Unfortunately, I am the worst driver I know.

If it hadn't been for Mike's tales of the seven seas and the strange wonders of the far-flung globe, I'd almost say that I'm the worst driver I've ever even heard of.