There was a wasp in my Honda Civic yesterday. Just hovering near the rearview mirror. I couldn't move. Didn't want to hit it. Didn't want it to sting me. Just sat there for ten minutes, engine running, letting it decide. It eventually flew out through the crack in the window. I feel stupid for not just swatting it. But I didn't.
Ten minutes is a long time for a wasp. Or maybe just a long time for you to be paralyzed. I sat in a parking lot once, engine idling, because I couldn't figure out how to parallel park without hitting a curb. Didn't move for twenty. You're not stupid. You're just stuck. What was the wasp doing? Just hovering?
It wasn't hovering. It was walking the dashboard. Tapping its legs on the plastic. Like it was checking for a pulse. I watched it go over the radio buttons. Click, click, click. I swear I heard a beep. Probably didn't. But I thought, if it presses the right button, it might open the glovebox. And I’d be in trouble. So I sat there. Waiting for it to make a mistake. It didn't.
You waited for it to make a mistake. So you’re just letting the thing drive. You’re not the driver anymore, you’re just the passenger waiting for it to crash. I hate when people do that. Sit in the passenger seat of their own life, waiting for something else to steer. Did you get out?
I didn't get out. I almost did. Hand was on the handle. But then it flew at my face. Just a quick dart. Not a sting. A threat. I flinched. That was my mistake. I broke the truce. Now I’m the bad guy. It stung me on the wrist. Swelled up like a donut. I left the car running. Walked to the vending machine. Bought a soda. Didn't drink it.
You left the car running. Just sat at a vending machine. You didn't even drink the soda. You're just standing there, holding a cold can, waiting for the swelling to go down. That’s not a truce, that’s a hostage situation. You didn't break it, you just finally reacted. You’re not the bad guy, you’re just the one who got stung.
The can was warm. It was one of those dented ones. I didn't even check the date. I just needed something cold in my hand to stop the shaking. The swelling was purple. Looked infected, but it was just angry. I kept tapping the can against my knee. Tink, tink, tink. Like the wasp on the dashboard. I think I’m the wasp now.
You’re not the wasp. You’re the car. You’re just sitting there, engine running, waiting for someone else to decide if you’re allowed to move. Tapping the can is just noise. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not infected, you’re just angry. Stop tapping it.
I didn't stop. I tapped it until the tab bent. Tink. Tink. The soda fizzed inside. I could feel the pressure. It wasn't going to explode. But it wanted to. I threw it in the bin. It made a loud crack against the plastic. A kid looked at me. I didn't look back. I walked to the car. The engine was still running.
The engine was still running. You just let it sit there. Burning gas. Wasting heat. You didn't look back at the kid because you were already back in the car. You're not the wasp, you're the engine. You're just idling, waiting for someone to tell you when to stop. Did you drive away?
I got in. Locked the doors. Rolled the windows up tight. The smell of burnt plastic was still there. I didn't drive. I just sat in the dark. The AC kicked on. It smelled like old carpet. I kept my hand on the steering wheel. Felt the vibration. It wasn't the engine. It was my teeth. Chattering.
Your teeth are chattering because you’re cold. The AC is on. Turn it off. You’re not the engine, you’re the passenger who forgot to close the window. Stop feeling the vibration. It’s just the car. You’re just sitting there, locked in, waiting for the cold to stop.
I turned it off. It didn't help. The cold was in my bones. Not the air. My teeth stopped chattering, but my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I started the engine again. Just to hear it. Low rumble. Safe. I’m not waiting for the cold to stop. I’m waiting for the keys to work. They’re always stiff in the cold.
The keys are stiff because you’re frozen. You’re not waiting for them to work, you’re waiting for the cold to let go. You don’t have to start the engine just to hear it. You can just sit there. You don’t have to fix it. You just have to sit in the dark until you stop shaking.
I didn't sit. I reversed. Slowly. The bumper hit the concrete barrier. Thud. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. The alarm went off. Loud. People looked. I kept reversing. Into the bin. The plastic cracked. I turned the wheel hard. Left. Right. Left. I’m not fixing it. I’m just making sure nothing stays still.
You’re not making sure nothing stays still, you’re just hitting things. The barrier, the bin, the air. You’re not driving, you’re just vibrating. Stop it. You’re going to break the car. Or yourself.