A Return to Normalcy

The automobile is more than just a means of getting to work and back, or at least it should be. For me, for quite a long time, that's all my personal vehicle was, because, quite honestly, I became scared to drive it more than absolutely necessary. Nothing is mechanically wrong with my Crown Victoria; it's perfectly safe to drive and capable of going hundreds of miles with no trouble. What's wrong with it is the message it sends to other motorists and, of greater concern, law enforcement officers. The unfortunate fact of life regarding large sedans, Crown Victorias in particular, is that they are popular among essentially two types of people: the elderly, and criminals. So, if a cop sees anything other than a white-haired mass of shriveled flesh at the wheel of a big sedan, he immediately assumes the driver is up to no good. Younger white guys like me driving Crown Vics are assumed to be police impersonators. In the years since that traumatic incident when I was actually detained under such suspicion, I have tried hard to buck the stereotype, making every effort to appear average and harmless while asserting my right to drive whatever car I want without harassment. I've gotten sick of it, reader. I'm caving in. I'm ditching the Vic.

My decision results from an escalating trend of unwanted attention from those armed, undereducated mouth-breathers comprising the police and sheriff's departments. I became more and more nervous and tense just driving the two miles to work and back as they would give me long stares or attempt to follow me. The past few weeks reached a boiling point, of sorts. One afternoon, a police car tried to turn around and follow me, but couldn't get back into traffic from the driveway. A similar event went down just last week. A police car drove by in the oncoming lane, whipped into a parking lot to come back for me, but got delayed by a slow driver exiting the parking lot, so I had just enough time to pull into a strip mall. I got out and watched from a position of concealment as the officer doubled back, waited in an empty lot across the street, then gave up and left. The day before, I saw one coming up the road to my rear, so I ducked into a McDonald's parking lot before he could get close enough to follow me. By the end of last week, my nerves were so shot that I couldn't even drive home for lunch. I explained the whole situation to my dad, who was very understanding and even let me borrow his spare car for a few weeks while I shop around for something else.

I really feel no sadness over the matter. I mostly feel relief. Today, driving my dad's car, a nondescript Volvo sedan, I finally felt "normal" again, for the first time in ages. My heart wasn't pounding, and I wasn't constantly looking in the mirror and sweeping the road and driveways ahead for cop cars. I no longer dread the drive to and from work, darting down back roads in hopes of avoiding the po-po. Seriously, my anxiety got so bad last week that I spent an hour studying the satellite map looking for back roads and usable commercial parking lots, anything to avoid the main roads. No more of that; I can take the direct route again, in a sensible but forgettable Volvo, without fear of persecution.

In a way, it felt like the '90s again, probably because I was associating my dad's Volvo with my dearly departed 1989 Volvo sedan, which I drove all over town and beyond from 1996–2003. I may have to make a '90s CD for tomorrow's commute to enhance the mood. Oh, how I miss Old Blue. It took me to high school every morning, down to Cameron Village with its blue & white plastic awnings, up to the Barnes & Noble at Crabtree Mall on weekends, out to Pleasant Valley for trips to Best Buy, and to the Mission Valley Cinema countless times. Sure, it had a leaky sunroof and hesitated to accelerate, but it was the embodiment of the freedom one has during the early driving years and the college years. I think, deep down, everyone wants his first car back. If I had the money for a spare car, I'd snap up an identical model as soon as one turned up for sale and stick on an NCSU decal and a replica annual inspection sticker.

For now, though, I'll have to settle for my '90s room for Jack Finney-esque time-travel. Progress is stalled out a bit due to cash-strappedness, but I'm coming up with ideas here and there for what to do as funds become available. I think I'll get a vintage poster promoting Blink 182's Enema of the State. Since it's supposed to be an apartment bedroom, I can get away with not having a mini-fridge or microwave, but I still need a computer desk to show off my 1996 Compaq. I'd love an old 500-series HP printer, too, and I need to hit up Edward McKay to look for period textbooks. For best effect — and I don't know if I can convince my wife to agree to this — I need to repaint the room off-white. What college apartment has walls in any color other than off-white or possibly light gray?

So far, the room does have a nice effect despite its lack of thorough authenticity. Last night, I plugged my iPhone into the vintage TV's AV input and played a 12-minute compilation of TV commercials from Fox primetime, dated October, 1999. I swear my mind really did drift back and forth in time as these commercials, many of which I'd nearly memorized from repeated exposure and then forgotten, played as background noise while I folded laundry. For brief flashes here and there, it really was the autumn of '99.