His Car by Emily Smouse
Although there are definitely larger and more aggressive vehicles (most of which, though, have only been made available to the civilian market in semi-recent years) it stands, still, dark and imposing, a cube slab of black granite on the white-gray concrete of the driveway. Not an SUV, it is an SUB— a Sports Utility Behemoth. Its windows— its eyes— stare blankly back at me as I look into them, reflective pools of shadow. The sound of the scrape of the key in the ignition wakes the monster; it sputters into activity, breathing, vibrating, metallically with anticipation, excited by the presence of a foreign body— my body— of mass standing nearby. The doors, opened, resemble the mouth, a gaping maw, of a hungry, but patient beast. Will it be fed? It lies in wait ready to be filled; it knows its hunger will be short-lived. My body of flesh is a sacrificial offering to its body of steel, so that the energy conceived from my forfeit will enable it to act on the purpose for which it was created. Giving myself willingly, unthinkingly, to the jaws of the animal, I sink horizontally onto its tongue…a normal car seat. The ominous titan becomes nothing more than the equivalent of a giant, friendly work dog, waiting to do my bidding, control of its every movement and action at my fingertips. Live a cave to its bear, it acts as a shelter against sun and rain, warmth and cold, danger, and slight annoyances. Its name suits it: Element. It is, in fact, an “element” of comfort— and a useful one, at that.
Like a heavy cloak, the Texan sun (and accompanying humidity) drapes itself over me as soon as I step outside; the star-bright pavement, stabbing needles of heat into the soles of my feet, wires of slight burning pain being soldered to my nerve endings, sends me hopping and prancing towards the car as I curse myself for not putting on my shoes beforehand. Pulling at the door handle clambering in, the heat is just as oppressive inside as outside. With the turn of the key, that soon changes: I’m blasted with A/C. The air from the vents creeps up through my nasal cavity and down to rest on my tongue; I taste the stale warmth, then crisp, fresh, cool air, which chills the beads of sweat from my brief perspiration on my forehead. Leaning back into the seat, I release a sigh reflective of the relief that the shade and air conditioning provide me. A cooler in the summer and a toaster in the winter, when the air from the vents spreads heat from my torso through my rigid limbs and down into my tingling digits, it holds me, blowing its own breath at a comfortable temperature, easing my own. Its seat cradles my head, my back, adjustable to the laxest or most rigid posture I can assume. It cools and heats, slides up and down, not as a servant forced to on command, but as a friend, wanting to on a request.
Sometimes, I find myself stomping out of the front door without regard to the temperature of the pavement or time of day, emotions and hormones combining to form a Molotov cocktail of fiery teenage angst. Before seeking physical comfort, I seek emotional comfort. To set “a mood” I can listen to anything I want to: what my mother would call “loud and obnoxious” metal, “grating” electronic, or any other genre of music prefixed with a parent-y adjective of objection and distaste…without the complaint. I can sulk and seethe, stew, in the offending annoyance, until it congeals in my mind, and I can peel it off and throw it away and forget about it. It is a perfect fortress of solitude, a cathedral of emotion. The hymn of whatever music in the background, turned down low or turned up high, always suits the neutral tones of the black and dark grays of the interior, which is devoid of annoyingly bright hues without seeming drab. It quells the electrical storm that shoots lightning between my synapses, into my dendrites and through my neurons, straightening and setting every nerve on edge, tensing my muscles. The smell— faint new-car and something else— fills (without overpowering) my nose, a refreshing incense. I inhale deeply for some time and finally lapse into a state of relaxation brought on by the dim, soothing temple, the church of calm, the peaceful sanctuary in the midst of bother.
Ironically enough, my place of ultimate comfort, where the most physical and mental ease…does not belong to me. I don’t (and can’t) drive it (although I have, admittedly, at times— the thick, textured steering wheel in both hands, jerking it left and right, pressing occasionally into the horn, with my feet resting on the pedals— pretended to) but I do not mind at all. In fact, I think the owner and driver of the Element is what causes me to feel as comfortable as I do in it.
I still remember the first time I lay eyes on the both of them. Both were large and square, both in black— one painted, one clad in the shade (although in the style of a jazz musician, rather than in that of a “goth” or “emo”). It has his touch all over: a bass in the back seat, binders of CDs containing bazillions of different songs by hundreds of different artists of thousands of different genres, crumpled napkins and papers and other trash (which is obviously present, but which does not seem messy at all), and some personal effects. The car smells like itself, but also like him: the good, unique scent of him that could, in no way, be reproduced. He and the car are sturdy, prepared and generally unfazed by the types of turbulence and wear and tear they both encounter, both are stronger than they look (although each seems very), both are reliable, and, around both, I feel safe and relaxed. Every part of his car is indicative of his personality.
There is always at least some small comfort to be found in most places you go; there is almost always a way in which you can adapt to better suit your environment. In the Honda Element— this specific one— it’s as if comfort has sought me, as if the environment has adapted to suit me. And as rare as it is to find a place so great, so seemingly synced to my body and mood, it is rarer to find such a person as the one who it belongs to. Never have I found a person and place and place in which and with whom I have felt so comfortable in my own skin, and I do not expect to for the rest of my life.
Emily Smouse is a high school junior and resides in Texas.
