To my right, the desert sun scorches my forearm through a slice of open window on the passenger side of my friend’s (we’ll call him “B”) new Saab. Arm-flesh searing aside, I relish the ride, the freedom of being driven by another man. I like being a passenger.
Akin to the harshness of the sun, thoughts of a passive life burn into my consciousness: What would it be like to be totally cared for, completely supported? Could it feel as good as this passenger’s seat? Could I really take pleasure in it, a follower, no leading required?
As I consider the position, the arrangement, B accelerates his shiny new sedan from 0 to 60 between each stoplight—aggressively making our way through the wide avenues of Palm Springs. With the interference of each red light hindering his raceway, my head lunges forward then returns with a thud to its place on the headrest, only to be repeated when the next—of which there are many— stoplight materializes. Still, I enjoy my place. I’m happy to be carted about; I’m on a week-end getaway.
In the moment, I decide I no longer wish to be in charge, to be held responsible for successfully transporting myself through the various stages of a day, my life. Having my bills paid, my meals prepared, my obligations handled, driven from place to place (no driver’s license required) sounds good. I want to sit back and enjoy the ride—for good!
While detained by another red-lit obstacle, my outlook becomes altered. Out my window, the passenger’s window, a silver-haired man driving a black, BMW 7 Series with smoke tinted windows pulls up alongside us. Savoring my submissive spot, I verbally exorcise my train of thought to B.
“I wish I had a sugar daddy with a 7 Series Bimmer to take care of me.”
B laughs, then guns the engine.
“Well … there you go, ”he says, cocking his head in the direction of the passenger’s side, my side. “Go for it!”
The light changes. In a streak of black, 7- Series-Daddy pulls away. Once again B takes off, the acceleration forcing my head deeper into the cushiony leather headrest. As our car once again gains speed, I’m afforded the opportunity to observe the landscape with more scrutiny. Seven-Series-Daddy’s license plate comes into focus. It’s a customized plate, a jumble of letters tailored into some sort of abbreviation: BSKT CKR.
I try to make sense of it, but I’m bad at crossword puzzles,worse at those word-aligning games.
“What do you think B-S-K-T-C-K-R means?” I ask B.
“Basketsomething, I guess.”
“Hmm … ”
We arrive at the next stoplight. My head jerks forward then returns to the seat delivering 7-Series-Daddy back into full view. With only a few feet and a painted white line between us, I’m able to observe SSD’s profile with more clarity. He never looks in our direction. He has no idea he is being observed. Framed by the shady tint of his windows, I search for signs, answers to the vanity plate.
The dark allure of his expensive car gives him a stately air—the desert sun discharging a flash through his silver hair.
I wonder to myself, would I be happy as his passenger?
The light changes. Again 7SD pulls away first.
“Seeker!” B shouts. “That’s it! Basket Seeker!”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yep” B proudly boasts, stomping the accelerator to close the gap in road between us.
“What do you think makes someone identify themselves that way—as a dick-monger?” I volley back while fiddling to lower the power window for a better view.
“Ummm … who knows?”
I stare down at my crotch, and then back out the window.
Before we can reunite at another stoplight, 7SD turns off and disappears up a stretch of desert asphalt, the colossal mountain backdrop giving his car the authority of a bug climbing a wall—the BSKT CKR plate fading into the heap of surreal desert rocks.
In that moment, his departure fuels a new thought. I realize 7SD and I aren’t that diferent—we’re both seeking something.
Several restful days later, back home in L.A. and behind the wheel of my own car, I’m more aware than ever of my ride, of how I put myself out there. My car is a yellow pick- up truck with daisies stuck to the back. I deduce I’d be perceived as colorful. I change lanes a lot and relish in shaving time off my commute. I like to drive fast and aggressively—like a New York cab driver (so I’ve been told). I find comfort in holding the wheel— my mental and physical decisions aligned. While I sit (impatiently) waiting at a stoplight, it evokes memories of 7-Series-Daddy, of my wish for another, less independent life. Perhaps it was my depleted demeanor— too much work—that made me dream of another sort of existence. It induces a laugh—which is followed by a cathartic moment: I enjoy maneuvering myself through situations, through life. I like where I’m going and the things I’m seeking.
As the light changes to green, I realize one very essential thing: While striving for your desired goals, it’s important to occasionally stop and review the landscape—in order to be content with your direction.
Sometimes it starts with a new year and sometimes it takes a weekend getaway. Sometimes it takes the support of a good friend and sometimes it involves a mysterious sign from a stranger to make you stop—perhaps at a traffic light—and take stock of who you are and what you want. And things might not always go in the direction you imagine, but the important thing to remember is that, no matter how you choose to do it, you have to put yourself out there in order to get what you want out of life. And, P.S., there are no free rides!
So here’s to a new year of seeking … um … baskets—filled with desire.
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previously published columns visit www.frontiersweb.com and www.outlooks.ca