Rochelleratner.com - Bearing Life: Honda Treat

from Honda
By Jessica Treat

III. Honda

I liked the name. If ever I had a child I'd name him that. I figured it was the kind of name that would protect him. Why did I imagine a he? No reason. Just that Honda wasn't going to fit a girl very well. Sometimes I imagined I already had him. I'd sit at the playground with all the young mothers and dads with their children and I'd see Honda playing in the sandbox. He was a good boy. He kept to himself, never bothered anyone. Of course the sand creations he made, castles with drawbridges and so forth, were so fantastic that the other children begged to play with him. Or at least help him. They would pile sand for him. For example. Or they'd be the ones to make the tiny patterned imprints on the castle, from twigs and leaves and so on. Honda didn't mind them helping. He would be so intent on his project that nothing else could really interfere. It could drive you a little crazy. When I called him to dinner, when it was dark and time to leave the park, he'd still be sitting there, piling on sand and fixing bridges. He acted like he didn't hear me.

I'd leave the park in frustration. It's easy to get mad when no one pays attention to you. It happened on one such day. I was thinking about the mothers and their spanking-clean children, the little snacks they always carried for them. Seemed like they always thought of everything. How they fell into easy conversation with one another. About their children of course. I got into my car, started up the engine. I noticed as I pulled out of the lot that the car had a different smell, a cigar smoke smell. I looked around as I drove. I could see work gloves on the passenger seat and some motorcycle magazines on the floor. None of these were things I kept in my car--so how did they get there? And the key chain--a tiny soccer ball of imitation leather--wasn't what I carried. I had a little red pocket knife, the kind with miniature scissors on it. The more I looked around the more I saw that this wasn't my car. It was blue, it was a 1982 Honda, but it was someone else's.

Of course I should have driven right back to the lot, parked the car and gotten in my own. Isn't that what you do when you realize you've gone home with someone else's raincoat? The sort of thing that happens a lot--at tea parties or restaurants. I kept on driving. I had some sort of block against turning around. Maybe because of how Honda ignored me in the park; I didn't want to be seen by all those young mothers again. Or maybe it was just inertia. Whatever it was, my foot was on the gas pedal, the gas gauge was at half-full and I was going straight ahead. Apart from the cigar smell, which was kind of homey when you got used to it, the car was actually cleaner than my own. I mean I did have a lot of junk and things in mine: dinners that were half-eaten, crumbled cookies, my broken umbrella and favorite green sweater and things. I noticed also that his upholstery wasn't torn like mine was. I really don't know how he kept it so neat. After all, it was a very old model. He actually had a blanket on the back seat to keep it cleaner. I checked it out through the rear-view mirror. I thought I could see dog hair on it. So he had a dog. A doggy type of individual.

Where do you go in a car that isn't yours? It wasn't at all clear to me. So I kept on driving. It occurred to me that I could bring his car home for him. That would be a real favor since he was probably wondering where it had gone off to. I had only to find his address. I waited for a red light to pull out his registration. There it was: Michael Todd. Chestnut Hill Road. Such a pretty name for a road. I had never been there. It gave me a destination. I wasn't exactly sure how to find Chestnut Hill. I searched the side pockets for maps. I found maps of Canada and New Mexico but no local ones. Obviously this guy knew his way around. You had to give him credit for that. Or maybe it was his dog, with the nose of a pointer. Always pointing toward home. Or was that a weather vane? I wasn't sure. I had never been very good at directions. In fact, I was getting more and more lost by the second. At least I had gas. Half a tank could go pretty far. I didn't have money to buy more. If I ran out of gas, Mr. Todd was just going to have to find his car by the side of the road somewhere. A sad thought for the Mr. and his dog. But they were used to walking. That's what doggy-types did: walk all over the place. Come to think of it, he might not even miss his car, being so used to walking everywhere.

It was very pleasant this time of year: early summer. The lilacs were starting to blossom. I rolled down the window some to get a whiff of them, to kind of trade cigar smell for lilacs. They were wholesome. The road was a pretty one. I passed old barns and neatly kept houses. It was the time of year you could see people out in their gardens. All winter long you never see anyone and then suddenly they're everywhere like ants out of their tunnels: digging and planting and mowing. A lot of work surely. But then, you get that nice flower smell. And lots of it. Or you get a clean piece of lettuce. Or a bright red radish. The possibilities are endless. Too bad I never took up gardening. With Honda there just wasn't time for it. It was one or the other. Maybe Mr. Todd had time though. In between motorcycles and dog walking, soccer and cigar smoking.

Chestnut Hill. The thing to do was to ask someone. One of those gardeners. I chose a lady with a wide brim. Her hair was white and her skin aged from the sun. Didn't she take a break in the winter? "Can you tell me how to get to Chestnut Hill?" I practiced my most polite on her.

She squinted at me. "Let me see now... Go back to town, take the first right after the light, go up a hill, you'll see a sign for it, off to the left somewhere…"

I nodded like I knew exactly what she was talking about. Her eyes were very blue. Everything else seemed faded. I thanked her. "Your garden is beautiful," I told her. She seemed genuinely pleased. "I'd keep a garden if it weren't for my child," I added, "you get so busy, you know?"

She nodded. "My children are all grown. I probably have more time than I know what to do with. But I enjoy it really...."

I felt she was on the verge of telling me things she might regret later. "Bye ma'am, and thank you...."

Driving on a road you've already driven on isn't so much fun. Back to town. I had a bad feeling about it. I really should have kept going, looked at more and more pretty houses and hillsides, maybe even lakes and ponds. I don't know why I didn't just turn around. It was the fact that I'd been given direction, been told where to go. It was silly though, because why should I care about the Mr. and his dog? Why should I bother to return the Honda when it suited me very well, fit like a glove to my needs and personality? The faded blue upholstery, the slate blue dashboard, the gas gauge on its just-below half mark, all felt very intimate, like the Honda and I had been designed for each other. I was snug inside. I tried the radio, but quickly turned it off; I didn't like the intrusion of loud radio voices. I wanted the hum of the engine: just Honda and me, taking our time.

I noticed him as I pulled into town. He was right behind me. I sometimes see them where they're not; I see bars on a car roof--ski racks and so forth--and immediately I slow down. I don't like to take chances. But there was no mistaking this one: a spanking-white car with blue stripes and block letters: State Police. I felt confused. Should I continue straight or try to find that turn-off, the way to Chestnut Hill? My plan, which had never been a very clear one, was completely muddled now. I put on my turn signal. I was following the directions Mrs. Cornflower had given me; I was on my way, my best foot forward.

That's when the lights started flashing red to the accompaniment of high-pitched screeling. It was my worst migraine turned inside out, the flashing and screeching closing in on me, blood-shot eyes all around me. I was sweating profusely. There was nothing to do but pull over. I suppose there was the other option of a high-speed car chase, but no, I didn't feel like I had that option. I really didn't. I turned the engine off. I looked at myself in the mirror, straightened my hair. Was that Mr. Todd in the car with his dog? I thought it must be. I sat back in the Honda and waited. I felt calmer suddenly.

VIII. Positive Thinking

There were some people I needed to avoid. My landlord, for instance. (When did he get such a lofty name in life? Just think: own a building and you get to be a nobleman or something.) I needed to steer clear for the obvious reasons: I had neglected to pay my rent. Well, we weren't too far into the month so no crime had been committed. In fact, he really couldn't complain yet. The check was in the mail or it was on its way to his mailbox, hand-delivered, or it had fallen into a puddle and was drying off in my room. Of course, what could be duller than waiting for a check to dry? I had to get out of my apartment, get my legs walking. Of course I would have preferred driving, but my financial state was a little precarious. I'd already rounded up all the change--pennies mostly--I could find in my apartment, packed the little paper cylinders. At the bank I got some crisp green bills in exchange, so light in weight I knew they would never be enough to pay the rent with.

It was better not to think about such things. Thinking never got you anywhere. Far better to be a person of action. Life was not about waiting around for Miss V. to show up and rescue you. Besides, there were things I had to get, things Honda needed for the start of school--crayons and pencils and so forth--as if I didn't already have enough to consider. On the other hand, sometimes kids left these things behind at the playground; once I found a whole set of markers resting on a bench with all the colors of the rainbow, from purple to lime-green, taped neatly shut in a box. Clearly a teacher had forgotten them. At the time I didn't take them, but later I realized I should have. Because someone else would surely, and why shouldn't it be me, a person of action? Why shouldn't Honda have the very best in life, down to the teacher's editions?

I walked as far as my car. I had calculated my finances: I could pay for a few dollars worth of gas and still have some left over for a Milky Way and a pack of Marlboros. The air was crisp and clear--it was that time of year when people like to watch the leaves change color as they drop down beside you. I like it too, I won't pretend I don't--but I can't help remembering what comes next: grey dreary drizzle and such ice-block coldness ... but why be so pessimistic? I'd forgotten my positive thinking lessons already. Those mantras came back to me suddenly: how we'd sat in a circle and repeated them after the leader. I can do it... I will do it... Nothing is too difficult.... We had to visualize ourselves climbing a mountain; one by one we got to the top of it as everyone else cheered. But were we all visualizing the same size mountain? What if my mountain was a lot smaller than everybody else's? In fact, my mountain was very small--just an anthill really--but nobody else seemed to notice. In any case, I had trouble concentrating; I kept thinking: how did I end up in a room with purple-carpet and a pink ceiling and all of these strangers? The truth is the Card Lady had sent me. I suppose she thought I'd get inspired and it would rub off on my work for her. But you can see where it got me. She moved on without me, and what good is it then to say: I can do it, I'm climbing this mountain?

No wonder I'd forgotten to indulge in positive thinking. Come to think of it, it had all had a very poor outcome. Very poor indeed. I thought about this as I drove along. It was worth considering, it seemed to me. Because I didn't want to make that mistake again. Could it be that that sort of positive thinking, of visualization, as they called it, actually backfired? Because while you spend your time imagining delightful scenarios, circumstances are conspiring against the very picture you're creating....

It struck me as an odd coincidence that just as I was remembering about climbing mountains I was in all actuality driving up one. True, it was not a real mountain, but this was no anthill either. My Honda was struggling to get into gear. At the top I pulled over to rest a moment. The air was so quiet it sounded suspicious. Clearly this was a Monday or a Tuesday with everyone in their little work station.... I knew I should be parked in my own little station--my finances told me this--but a mother should be with her children; I didn't see why I should give that up in exchange for a couple of dollars. After all, Honda would be starting school soon and how often would I see him then?

The thought of first grade made me shudder. I' d had a terrible experience myself, softened only by Mrs. Barlow. I'd been called such a number of names, things which gave me legitimate stomach aches and hearing problems. My clothes, my shoes, even my lunch bag were suspect.... It didn't matter. I had my own world. Hocus, pocus, dominocus ... if someone was mean to me, I'd lie in bed at night imagining him (or her) with a big X on his face. The results worked very nicely. The next day the boy was invisible to me, completely insignificant--I no longer saw him. Let's not start analyzing just how this happened--these things fall apart under close scrutiny. The relevant fact is: I was worried for Honda. I decided to buy him some black charcoal pencil sticks, just in case he encountered the same kind of behavior. This led me to wonder why I would bother to send him at all--? He was, after all, so much smarter than children his age, having learned to read, to swim, to talk, so far ahead of all the other babies.... He was going to get bored; I didn't need a school psychologist to tell me that. But what would I do all day with him home? I needed to start making money.... These were the kinds of thoughts which ran through my head, typical motherhood thoughts, nothing out of the ordinary.

We took the long route home, a route which took us past the elementary school. The Crossing Guard stood beside the road as she always did, Monday through Friday, bundled up in an orange vest, waiting for her charges. And then I did something I'd never done before: I raised my hand and waved to her. She smiled and waved back.

Astonishing. How easy that had been! But what was I thinking? That was Honda's school, Honda's crossing guard.... Of course--she had recognized me. Which led me to wonder why I hadn't dropped Honda off at school today? Or let the school bus take him? I felt confused. Then I remembered ... I hadn't started him there yet. Why rush things? Anyway, it was almost winter, not the start of the school year. There was time yet.

I pulled over and parked by the side of the road. Rather than turn around (and waste gas), I walked along the sidewalk the half mile or so back.

She was older than I'd imagined. She wore an orange cap with earflaps to go with her outfit. "Hello!" I said, "I was wondering..." and then it came out, what I hadn't known I would say: "Do you know if they need any more Crossing Guards at the school? Are they looking for new applicants? Or maybe, at another school?"

"Well, I really couldn't say," she told me. "Why don't you ask Mrs. Thompson? I really couldn't say myself ... maybe a back-up ... someone to pick up where I leave off, I mean, fill in on a sick day.... But I'll tell you something," she was smiling, looking about to confide a secret, "the pay is terrible! You won't be able to make a living ... and it's so boring ... standing here all morning and afternoon, even in the winter when your toes are fucking freezing!"

I was staring at her orange earflaps. In my head I was trying her whole outfit on: the vest, the hat. It was all a little too snug, too constricting, finally.

"Is something wrong?" she asked me.

"Oh no," I told her, "I was just thinking ... about my son, I've got to get back...."

"Oh," she said, and she looked confused, "You have a son--what's his name?"

"Honda," I told her.

"Honda?" She laughed. "Is that his real name?"

Of course it was. Did she have a problem? "Listen, Miss--"

"Cindy ... I'm sorry, I didn't mean--"

"Listen, Miss Cindy Sorry..." Then suddenly it came back to me: that first day of school when I didn't know which bus to take ... Cindy was the girl who'd misdirected me, on purpose ... a long bus ride that went nowhere near where I lived....

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

I'd gotten off at a stranger's house, pretending it was my own--I didn't want the bus driver to know my predicament. But of course I wasn't called inside for milk and cookies. In fact, there was quite a lot of shouting coming from that particular house and so I decided to make my way back to my own. It took me the rest of the day to find it. And of course no one noticed how late I was, much later than I'd ever been.... Unbelievable that now, years later though it was, Cindy Sorry had been put in charge of youngsters. Incredible, really.

"If I were you," I told her, concentrating on the blank patch of forehead, right beneath her orange cap, "I'd start thinking about resigning. Why wait until they find out? You're better off quitting--that way you can avoid scandal. The inevitable SCANDAL..."

"Are you nuts? What are you talking about? I'm sorry if I--"

I waved her off as I walked back. Cindy Sorry hadn't changed one iota. At least I hadn't enrolled Honda there. But what a travesty the Crossing Guard in this town was--unworthy, like so many others, of her title.