Prose by John Kidwell

Here in My Car

I love to drive, and I hate that. The automobile has done untold damage. Cars kill. Cars pollute. Cars create unnecessary noise—horns, car alarms, revving engines, shot mufflers, screeching tires. If the nation’s vast web of roads and highways connects its citizens, it also isolates them. When a person gets inside their car, they’re sealed off from everything outside of it, in their own little world. The driver may stop at the stop sign and signal to the pedestrian that it’s okay to walk, but the person crossing the street will never be as real to the driver as they are to their fellow pedestrian. Neither person has a three-thousand-pound steel and glass cage protecting them when they pass each other on foot; each is forced to acknowledge the other’s physical presence. Cars eliminate that need for acknowledgment. The car behind me, the car in front of me, the car I’m shouting at using language that I probably would not repeat in polite company—they’re all just cars. Who’s driving them? Who cares?

This tracks with the car’s historical relationship with American self-determination. When Americans talk about the milestones of success, owning a car is usually right up there with owning a house and having a family. A nice car can be a symbol of wealth, but even a clunker confers a certain amount of freedom: no worrying about who will drive you home or what time the last train arrives, no waking up early to catch the bus to work. Drivers live according to their own schedules. They make their own rules. The driver waits for no one. The driver has places to be.

Think of all the most iconic media involving cars: the Joads on their way to California in a dusty jalopy; Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty setting out on the open road; the teens of American Graffiti cruising the strip; the protagonist of Grand Theft Auto, tossing drivers out of their vehicles and speeding away. In each case, the car offers a way out. That escape may only be an illusion, but the same way a distant highway mirage blurs the line between sky and scorching asphalt, the open road obscures the distinction between illusion and reality. You could be driving in a circle, but behind the wheel, you’re always going somewhere. Anywhere. The destination’s not important. The ride is what matters. In fact, wherever it is you’re going, at least part of you hopes to never arrive.

The real genius of Grand Theft Auto might be in the title—how all manner of vice and criminality leads back to the automobile. Players enjoy a protective barrier, a virtual simulacrum to enact their worst, most horrendous impulses. Whenever I revisit GTA, I never do missions. I just steal cars and drive around killing people. I behave like a total monster in this game, because that protective barrier permits me to do so with zero consequences, and the anonymous NPCs I’m running down with my stolen car are not real people. In this respect, GTA’s gameplay eerily simulates the alienating, often desensitizing effect of driving.

On the other hand, between GTA and driving, only one of these things directly results in people losing their lives. There are over a million car-related fatalities every year, including tens of thousands in the U.S.^{1 2} The chances of dying in a fatal car wreck are significantly higher than the chances of dying in an airplane crash. Yet when I climb into the driver’s seat and start my car, my heart never pounds the way it does during takeoff. When I’m in my car, I’m in control—or at least it feels that way. In my car, I don’t need anyone else—no pilot or copilot, no ticketing or security personnel. In my car, I’m self-determined. I eat when I’m hungry, I drink when I’m dry, and when I need to get from one place to another, I get in my car and go.

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In 1920, William Potts installed the first four-way, three-colored traffic lights in Detroit.³ Three years later, Garrett Morgan patented the manually operated three-way traffic light.⁴ Red, yellow, and green soon became synonymous with stop, slow down, and go. As more places switched from manual traffic lights to computerized traffic systems, countries had a choice between two standards of signage: those established under the Vienna Convention of Road Signs and Signals and those established under the Manual of Uniform Traffic Control Devices (MUTCD).^{5 6} The former is a treaty of 71 parties and 35 signatories, including much of Europe and South America. The latter is a handbook, first published in 1935 by the Federal Highway Association, which serves as the basis for traffic signals and signage in most of North America, along with many other countries. The two standards of signage are not vastly different, but one thing that varies is color. For example, a highway sign in the United States is a green rectangle, while in France it’s a blue rectangle. The U.S. yield sign is an inverted red and white triangle, but in Vietnam, it’s red and yellow. For all our differences, one color code remains consistent: the red light means stop and the green light means go.

The safety benefits of this consistency are self-evident and in keeping with the general spirit of traffic signals, which exist primarily to keep drivers and pedestrians safe. The traffic light is a bedrock of public safety in the automotive society. As I write this, I can hear cars speeding up and down the nearby roads, and the only reason these sounds are not followed by loud crashes is that there are lights at intersections and signs requiring—or here in Baltimore, requesting—that drivers slow down. Even for someone like me who hates rules and takes pleasure in breaking them, these basic safety measures seem not only reasonable but necessary.

As usual, there’s a catch: for these rules to be effective, drivers must follow them. A red light is only as good as the person who stops for it. Baltimore drivers run red lights all the time. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration estimates that between 2018 and 2022, Maryland had 3,969 red light-related deaths and ranked sixth in the nation for percentage of drivers involved in red light-related accidents.⁷ Traffic cameras don’t seem to deter red light runners, especially when not every intersection has a camera. Almost every day I see someone pause at a red light, making sure no one is approaching from either side before they run it. I always wonder where these people need to be. What negative consequence might befall them for waiting thirty seconds for the light to change? What could possibly be so important?

Some might question why I care. If there are no oncoming vehicles, what difference does it make? For one, just because no one is coming this time doesn’t mean that will be the case the next time. My one and only car accident happened because I didn’t see an oncoming car while making a right on red. These things happen. Human judgment is imperfect. What if your eyes are so peeled for cars that you run over a pedestrian who’s right in front of you? What if you think you’re running a three-way light when it’s actually a four-way, and you smash into an oncoming car? The world is chaotic, and traffic lights exist to protect people from that chaos and mitigate its gravest effects. When drivers start deciding which red lights are required and which are suggested is when people start to get hurt.

While traffic law is mostly about protecting the public, these safety concerns have broader moral implications. When a person stops for a red light, they are strengthening the unstated social contract to abide basic, common sense safety measures. When a person runs a red light, they are weakening that social contract, and on a more personal level, they’re prioritizing their individual needs over those of the collective. Not just any needs but maybe the greatest need of all—for everyone to get to their destinations without death or injury. When you stop at a red light, in your own little way, you’re both acknowledging to those around you that you are not above the law and demonstrating that you care about their safety and well-being.

This all runs contrary to the whole live free or die culture of the road. If I need to go somewhere and a red light is in my way, the logic of self-determination says that I should just run it. People run red lights for the same reason they might pass a slow driver and give them the finger or hurl a coffee mug at a car that cuts them off: because nothing outside the car is real. There are no other people, just cars, and the red lights are just lights. What could be more American than disregarding their intended purpose for my own stupid, selfish reasons? Traffic law might demand that we stop at red lights and follow the speed limits, but our overriding cultural ethos encourages us to challenge these restrictions and question their importance. Why should I care what the speed limit is? Who gives a shit about the color of the light? Fuck you. I’m driving.

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This is the part where I tell you why, despite all the pollution that it generates and people it kills, driving fucking rules. There’s no way around this inconvenient fact. Have you ever driven a convertible with the top down on the highway while blasting “Bohemian Rhapsody”? Nothing like it. I used to drive a convertible. Not a nice one—a 2005 Sebring. Not the exact model that Michael Scott drives in the early seasons of The Office, but pretty close. A friend sold it to me for $1,000 before he moved to Iceland. Coincidentally, the only other car I’d ever purchased in my life at that point—a 1988 Corolla—also belonged to a friend who was moving to Iceland. The Corolla was only $200. Neither car lasted more than a couple years past its purchase date.

After thoroughly running the Sebring into the ground, I junked it and bought a 2003 Accord with less than 120,000 miles for $3,100. I met the seller in CVS parking lot in southeast Baltimore. He claimed he was selling the car on behalf of his sister, who had just bought a new car. That was the first red flag. The second appeared quickly thereafter, as I was giving it a test ride, when he told me he’d rather sell it to me than one of these N-words out here. I told him not to say that. Not only is it extremely racist, but he also didn’t know me or my history. I reminded him that I might have a black wife or brother-in-law or best friend. His racism could kill the sale, and if for no other reason, he should consider that before expressing it openly. He apologized and said that he wasn’t racist. I’ve dated black women before, he told me—as if that makes any difference.

Still, racist or not, a good deal’s a good deal. Finding a cheap used car with under 120,000 miles is difficult enough, and almost any Honda made before 2007 is a fucking tank. They last forever. I agree to $3,000. Then he ups it to $3,100. He says he had to get a new tire and freon for the AC and blah blah blah. Fine, I say. Whatever. As I write him a check for $3,100, I notice the cursive letters tattooed to his cankle: Gypsy Hustle. As if the N-word thing wasn’t a big enough red flag, this should stop me in my tracks. But I’m an idiot, so it doesn’t. Only after I’ve driven away with the car do I realize that he hasn’t given me the title, just a different form that looks like a title. I call him back and tell him I need the title. He says he gave it to me. I insist that he didn’t. Oh, okay, no problem, he says. He’ll just have to order a replacement title, which should only take a week or two.
Several weeks go by. I’m driving around without a title, and therefore, I don’t have legit plates. I put the plates from my Sebring on the Accord. If the Baltimore Police did their jobs, I might be in serious trouble. I keep texting the Gypsy Hustler to ask about the status of the title. He tells me that the replacement’s on its way, then another week goes by, and nothing happens. Almost a month has passed by the time he calls me and says he has the new title. I drive down to southeast Baltimore to pick it up. Since he had to order it himself, he asks if I can give him an extra $50. When I refuse, he has little recourse—having already handed me the piece of paper, which contains a suspicious signature. An obvious forgery. Whatever. I don’t want to know. With the title now in my possession, I can successfully transfer my plates. Problem solved.

Only weeks later does my curiosity get the best of me. I call a phone number that I find in the glove box for the previous owner, telling her that I bought her old car from a shady guy—that he said he was her brother but that I don’t believe him. She confirms my suspicions. They’re not siblings. He showed up at her house unannounced and said that her car appeared to be in great condition, throwing out a generous number. But the more closely he inspected the car, the more he subtracted from his original offer, claiming it needed all kinds of repairs. I ask how much he paid. $1500. I tell her I paid more than double that. She says yeah, I think you got taken. Yeah, right back at you.

I Google the Gypsy Hustler. There’s a local news story about him (or someone else with his exact name) finding a dead body near a reservoir. Sinister possibilities emerge. This man could have killed me and dumped my body in the woods. The world is an unforgiving place. Terrible things happen without warning. Reading this news article, I can only wonder: did I just risk my life for a used Honda Accord?

Maybe, but I risk my life any time I get inside my Honda Accord, regardless of who’s occupying the passenger seat. That’s not the point of the story. I tell this story because, despite getting hustled and possibly putting myself in danger, seven years later, I still drive that car. Sometimes I consider upgrading, but I always conclude that the car I have is just fine. It runs well, gets good gas mileage, has working AC. On my 6-disc changer, I can play the many CDs that fill the center console and slide around in the door pockets. I mostly listen to the radio, though. My favorite frequency is 94.7, where two stations fade in and out of each other. One is classic American pop from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. The other is modern country. In the middle of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” you’ll randomly hear “pickup truck” or “drinkin’ a beer.” Rush hour traffic is made a lot more bearable by rolling the windows down while Cyndi Lauper jockeys for airplay against guys with names like Justin Brakely and Pudd Purvis Jr. 

Along the FM dial, the most frequent song in rotation is Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ “Free Fallin’.” Great driving song. Tom Petty is ideal driving music. It’s fun but also wistful, often sad. Whatever you’re going through, Tom’s been there. If you’re ever feeling bad, just go drive on the highway to “American Girl.” Remember the scene in The Silence of the Lambs where Buffalo Bill kidnaps Catherine Martin? What’s so real about that sequence is how she’s having such a good time singing along to “American Girl” before he kidnaps her. The world is an unforgiving place. Terrible things happen without warning. Yeah, driving is bad—for the environment, drivers, pedestrians, birds, squirrels, trees—but so what? Life is short and precious. You gotta seize those rare moments of joy whenever possible, even if they’re mostly limited to singing along to the radio on your way home from work. “God, it’s so painful, something that’s so close / and still so far out of reach.”⁸ What an incredible line. It’s life, it’s America, it’s driving. The destination is always just over the bend—so close but so far. We’ll arrive soon enough. Until then, just sit back and enjoy the ride.

John Kidwell

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