Driving in Cars with Carol

[1972]

Carol eyes the blue frame of her newly-purchased 1966 Volkswagen Beetle sitting in front of her dormitory.  The miniature vehicle is further dwarfed, parked in the shadow of the eleven-story high rise.  Carol has called this, the tallest building in the town of Chadron, her home away from home for over a year. Perhaps she enjoys the irony of living in the largest building while owning one of the smallest cars in the lot. 

On this day, Carol tries to picture the Bug’s interior in terms of human limbs.  She estimates roughly two arms’ reaches across by four.  “Seven.  Eight maybe,” Carol finally muses. 

Her roommate circles the car, trying to visualize bodies in the empty space. “That sounds right,” she agrees.  “Let’s see if we can get some of the girls from second.  They’re kind of small, and I bet they’ve got some boys that will want to do it, too.  Maybe we can set a new record or something.” 

The Beetle is Carol’s saving grace after spending her freshman year of college hitching rides with family, friends, and strangers the 480 miles to and from her mother’s house on holidays.  The last nine-hour carpool had consisted of Carol, a pickup, seven college males, and a cooler.  This trip prompted her mother to buy the car; anything to keep Carol out of another awkward situation.  Her mother’s best intentions fail, however, for on this day, as the Bug waits with both doors open, Carol’s only thoughts are of stuffing it with as many people as possible.

[1974]

            Carol perches in the driver’s seat with the door open and her left foot hovering above the clutch.  As if the oil shortage wasn’t enough, now the Bug has other worries.  Craning toward the rearview mirror, all Carol can see past the top of her own brown-haired forehead is the sun’s glare reflecting off the lid of the opened back-end.  Her brother works dutifully on the engine, trying to figure out why the Volkswagen refused to move from their mother’s driveway.  Every few minutes he hollers “try it now” followed by “okay!” while Carol turns the ignition and then quits as the engine refuses to turn over. 

For the fourth time, Carol hears “try it now” and turns the key.  Finally, the Bug replies with a short roar of the engine followed by the sound of spare change tumbling around in a dryer.  As she listens to the clatter emanating from the heart of the Bug, her brother sprints passed and hastily roots through the pile of tools, rags, and empty oil tins amassed along the wall of the garage.  From the assortment, he pulls out a fire extinguisher and hustles back to the engine.  Carol jumps out of her seat just in time to witness the last flames being extinguished. 

            “When were you going to tell me my car was on fire?” she asks, her voice jumping two octaves.

            “I figured you’d get out eventually,” he replies, casually swatting at the cloud of smoke.

[1975]

            Carol and the Bug travel 230 miles from her mother’s house to her new college.  Her favorite song by the Fab Four fades in and out on the radio, but she doesn’t really listen.  The Beetle speeds along the road but is forced to slow down every ten miles or so as Highway 30 cuts through the small towns built along the Union Pacific Railroad.  Sometimes these interruptions annoy Carol, but today a quiet sense of contentment is making the four-hour trip back to her apartment fly by. The Bug putters between Ford pickups covered in farm dirt and oversized Chevy sedans that span the width of the driving lane.  Her car is a little blue dot that passes in the shadows of the grain towers sprouting from the otherwise flat landscape.  As trains roar by on the parallel tracks, their vibrations rattle the Beetle, but neither it nor Carol is intimidated.

She and the VW are returning from a drive lengthwise across Nebraska with her older sister and future brother-in-law.  From the state’s panhandle in the Sandhills to the eastern rolling hills near the Missouri River, her sister’s fiancé--born and raised on the West Coast--had his first glimpse and experience of Nebraska through the windows of her Volkswagen.  A smile creeps across Carol’s lips as she congratulates herself for a successful tour of the countryside along the newly completed Interstate 80.  She pats the dashboard and whispers “good job” to the Bug.

[1976]

            “I heard a lot of people were going to the Playpen, let’s go check it out.”

            Carol glances in her rear-view mirror at the young man sitting in the back seat, and then shifts her attention to the right for visual confirmation from her roommate.  The young woman in the passenger seat nods, her straight-ironed hair ripples exuberantly.  She adds “I heard that place was packed the last two weekends.  We should see if we know anybody there.”

            The Bug bounces along downtown’s uneven brick streets, cruising past one occupied parking spot after another. 

Carol’s roommate stretches her neck to peer into the Playpen. The bloated sedans and elevated pickups along the street form a wall around the popular college bar.  “I can’t see who’s in there over the cars,” she says with her forehead pressed against the ceiling.

            “I’ve got it, hold on,” Carol says, calmly guiding the vehicle around the block and into the alley that divides the three-story brick building from the identical structure next to it.  Upon exiting the alley, the Bug makes a sharp right turn onto the sidewalk.  The VW strolls blithely between the building and street curb before stopping in front of the bar.  Its three passengers peruse the crowd through the picture window and point out a few patrons they know.  Reconnaissance mission accomplished, the Bug backs up and idles in the street.

            “Well, what do you think?  Should I find a spot to park or should we go somewhere else?”

            “I can’t believe there weren’t more people in there I know—” the boy in the back seat moans.

            Carol’s roommate motions toward the window, “—Um, there’s some cops coming over.”

Two uniformed officers burst from the bar, dodging the parked vehicles cluttered along the curb.  One young officer marches double-time, circling them like a hawk and scribbling on his notepad after every other step.  He halts long enough to scrutinize the license plate with his ultra-focused eyes.

Meanwhile, the other officer ambles around the back of the Bug, his face reflecting in the rearview mirror.

Carol automatically sinks a few inches in her seat when she recognizes this slower policeman.  “Here comes your brother,” she mutters to her roommate, who instantly slouches and hides her face in her hands.

As the officer approaches, Carol cranks her window down one excruciating inch at a time. The lawman leans toward Carol’s window, setting his hand on the doorframe.  His lips quiver slightly, trying to suppress a grin, as he wags his head and groans, “Carol, Carol, Carol.”

[1979]

“Hey, don’t you know that guy?” Carol’s friend asks from the back seat of the Volkswagen.  Carol slows the car and the three women inside gawk at the twenty-something male mowing an impressively large yard attached to a small house.  Enormous headphones not only cover his ears, but also a good portion of his head.  The man doesn’t notice them as he pushes the mower lengthwise across the property.

            “He’s my fiance’s old roommate—that’s his house,” Carol points to the whitewashed wooden structure with shutters.

            The young women watch him go a few more labored laps before Carol says, “Do you think he’d notice if I drove up behind him?” She poses this more as a declaration than a hypothetical question.

            “Hey, that’d be funny.  Let’s do it.” 

            “I want to see!”  The rear passenger reaches around to open the door, and then climbs out.  “Move over,” she orders, shoving her hip into the girl next to her, who in turn moves closer to Carol, readjusting herself to accommodate the stick shift.  Soon, they all have prime seats by sitting three across the front. 

            The Bug careens from the street onto the grass, sneaking up behind the young man as he continues his route.   They track him all the way across the yard, the VW’s tires straddling the imprints made by the narrower mower.  Carol expertly taps the accelerator to keep moving without getting too close.  She forces her lips together to hold back the amusement growing inside her.

            Only when he gets to the end of the line does the man turn around.  He looks at the Bug twice, the second time through eyes as wide as headlights.  This jolt of comprehension knocks the earphones off of his head and the mower out of his grip. 

            As the engine of the mower dies, the noise is replaced by the beeping of the beetle’s horn and the women laughing hysterically.

***

[1987]

            I am a small child, perhaps four years old, sitting in the back seat as my mother drives the Beetle.  We go around the block, and then around the neighborhood, and then around Kearney.  We make no stops until the VW pulls back into our driveway.  My mother lifts me out of my car seat and tells me to stay next to the vehicle.  I watch her pull things out: car seat, blanket, window scraper, small boxes of things I don’t recognize. 

Just as she finishes moving these things into the garage, two young men wearing KSC t-shirts appear.  Both wear white socks that are almost as tall as I am.  They circle the Bug, grins plastered on their faces as they press their noses against every window.  My mother talks with them for a while, and then they open the trunk and look at the engine.  After a few minutes more, the young men climb in the car and slowly back into the street.  My mother stands at the end of the driveway and watches until the Bug has driven out of sight. 

I am confused.  “Why are they taking it?” I ask. 

            She grabs my hand and we walk toward the garage.  “It’s not ours anymore,” she says.

[1994]

            “Drive fun!” Carol’s daughters yell as she turns onto their block.  The three elementary school-aged girls sit in the very back of the mini-van she and her husband traded the Volkswagen for.  Carol slows down while the girls fold the back seat flat and then get situated on the smooth plastic backing. 

            “Ready!” they yell in unison, folding their hands in front of them to reduce stability. 

“Here goes!” Carol hollers.  The minivan jerks sharply to the right then suddenly left.  When the tires are a few inches from the curb, the van veers off in the opposite direction. 

The girls squeal like they are on a rollercoaster as the van zigzags down the street.  Carol watches as her daughters slide from one side of her rearview mirror to the other, and tries to convince herself again that this game wouldn’t be possible in a smaller car.

[2006]

            “Carol was backing out the red car from the garage, and I saw her hit the right side against the trash cans,” my father tells me over the phone.  “It’s complicated to back out around the other cars, I know, but…” his voice trails off into a silence I’ve never heard before.

 “Is the car okay?” I ask. 

“She dented in the front right side,” he says in a slightly higher pitch than usual. “She knew she hit something, but she just finished backing up and left.” 

My father is very particular about the appearance and maintenance of his automobiles, and I know that damage of any kind irritates him.  This time, however, the quiver in his voice is not triggered from concern for the car.

“I asked her about it when she got back, but she acted like she had no idea there was a problem.”  The geographic distance between us softens the words in the earpiece, but the distress in his voice comes through clearly. “And I really don’t think she knows what she did,” he nearly whispers. 

This last phrase is saturated with a worry I am unfamiliar with.  He waits for me to reply, but I, too, am unable to explain my mother’s recent behavior.

[2008]

            “There she is!” Carol points out the window of our family’s pickup at my sister, who’s mowing the lawn next to the city library.  “Let’s go drive by and say ‘hi’ to her,” she says to me. 

            The combination of harassing her daughter in public and driving has made her instantly giddy as we sit in a nearby parking lot.  As she turns the key in the ignition, I reassure myself that letting her drive home is a good idea.  Though my father hasn’t let her drive since she was diagnosed with Early On-set Alzheimer’s a few months earlier, I know that she drives his quarter-ton pickup around town while he’s at work.  I mentally reason that this three-stoplight town is not too complicated for her, and with me next to her things should be fine. 

            Carol shifts through all of the gears before I show her how to get to “reverse,” and then we repeat the process for “drive.” 

“You know,” she says with a glint in her eye that suddenly troubles me, “I used to drive my Volkswagen on the grass.”  She focuses on my sister --still mowing --and dons a crooked grin. 

            I laugh lightly and readjust my seatbelt.  “I know you did,” I say, “but I don’t think that’s such a good idea on public property.”

            My mother doesn’t say anything.  She just broadens her smile and creeps toward the library. 

            When the young woman holding the weed whacker sees us, she waves. 

My mother bounces up and down and yells her name out the window as the truck slows to five miles-per-hour.  She pushes every section of the steering wheel before finding the horn in the center. 

            “Ok,” I say, “I think that’s good, Mom.”

            She gives me a sideways glance as she grabs the wheel with both hands and cranks it to the left.  The pickup surges across the center line toward the curb and my sister.  I grab the steering wheel and force us back to the correct side of the road.  My mother laughs as the speedometer levels out at 20.   

            “Let’s go get some ice cream,” she says, still enjoying herself.

            “It’s 9:30 in the morning!” I reply, almost out of breath.

            “Oh,” she sighs, searching for the turn signal.

          
[2009]

            “Carol drove the car again,” my father tells me as we stand in front of the garage.  “I wouldn’t have even known if she’d turned it off right.  It was parked in the garage just fine, but she left it in ‘drive’ and pulled the keys out so the battery died.”  He shakes his head slowly and crosses his arms.  “I think I might have to hide the keys.”

            Since moving to a much larger town a few months earlier, Carol’s driving was supposed to have stopped.  Apparently she had other plans. 

            “Where does she go?” I ask, suddenly remembering the misshapen soda cans beneath the stairs.

            “I don’t know,” he says, barely audible.  “She won’t tell me, and I don’t think she remembers the name.  I have a feeling at least one stop is the Dollar General across town.  She knows where that one is, but doesn’t remember that there’s that one five blocks away.”

            We stand by the red car and try to visualize where it might go and how Carol drives it back.  “What does she buy?” my father asks the air. 

            “Chocolate,” I say, thinking back to the last two Christmases when she had hidden boxes of Little Debbie snack cakes around the house and then forgotten where or how many she had.  “She likes those little chocolate cakes, and I think she got pop, too.”

            He looks at me in surprise.  “Did she tell you that?”

            “No,” I sigh, arranging the evidence in my mind.  “I found an exploded pop can in the basement freezer and some empty ones under the stairs.  She said she was trying to find somewhere to hide them.”

            My father blinks a few times and gives a wounded look at the dent still scarring the right front fender.  “Maybe I should hide the keys.”

[Not too long ago]

Though she can no longer conceptualize mileage, money, or time, this my mother has somehow held on to the emotional memories attached to her Beetle.  No humorous story about her daughters or husband or siblings triggers recognition faster than even a brief mention of a Volkswagen.  Though she doesn’t remember the specifics of the stories, she knows how her experiences with the VW made her feel. 

She says, “You know, I had one of those,” and smiles, her hollowed eyes gleaming with the same intensity of sun reflecting off a windshield on a hot August day.  “And I drove…” my mother’s voice trails off as her words fail her.  Her face begins to fall as she feels unsure of herself and her memories.

“Everywhere,” I say, holding up the dialogue.  She smiles and nods, her confidence returning.

“And I drove around that place off the street…”  Again, my mother cannot verbalize the story, but I know it by heart and tell it for her.    She shakes her head back and forth to the rhythm of her words, “Carol, Carol, Carol.” Mocking the phrase always makes her laugh. She grins proudly during the narrative of her mischievous deeds and repeats what I say.

My words are her words, as my family has become the keepers of my mother’s memories.  To me they are just words, but to her, these stories offer a window of freedom and a feeling of comfort beyond comprehension to anyone else.  She did drive that Bug everywhere, and perhaps it drives her, too.  Even when recognition of the world around her fades completely, her mind will always be set to find an open road or sidewalk or grassy lot, and just keep driving.