Sunday, December 6, 2009
The synthetic "voice" of the car's GPS device penetrates the small confines of his midlife-crisis Mustang convertible. Because we are doing more roaming than arriving, the monotone female voice interrupts with annoying frequency. Yet we can't bring ourselves to turn it off . . . or surely we'll be lost. This all-knowing, godlike guidance system comforts us and alleviates apprehensions as it repeats, after we miss a turn: "recalculating . . . recalculating."
As I quietly ride along in the passenger seat, relieved of the map-reading duties of a navigator, I listen closely to the angst-filled ballads of love and loss in the country-western tunes on the radio. The poetrylike verse of Kris Kristofferson, Garth Brooks and Taylor Swift teaches a clear message -- that all of life includes recalculating . . . recalculating.
A sense of profoundness comes over me, so I break in with a question on an issue of some personal significance. A serious conversation between us is generated. And as I begin to strip myself of normal defenses and move toward revelations about myself, about us, we miss the left turn, and there she is yet again with her neutral but amazingly annoying voice: recalculating . . . recalculating.
We don't care that we missed the turn. I was just hitting that soft moment, and she intrudes as if she is a third person in the car. She has her own personality, persistent but nonjudgmental. She corrects our path but does not render a verdict as to the talent of the driver to follow her instructions. You will not hear, "Hey, stupid! What are you doing that for?" She just lets you know it is time for: recalculating . . . recalculating.
And, of course, the obvious comes to mind in an epiphany-like moment, as if I am Paul and on the road to Damascus. Yes, all of life is recalculating. We have a voice in our head suggesting a right turn -- no, no, wait -- left turn . . . Now wait . . .
We think we're on the right road, and just when we least desire and least expect it, a voice intrudes, and whether we want to or not, it's time to recalculate. And it's this voice inside us, the one you can't turn on and off like a GPS device, where attention must be paid. Otherwise we might miss the pleasure and excitement of hearing: "500 meters to final destination" . . . "400 meters" . . . "300" . . . and in that final Hal-like voice from "2001: A Space Odyssey," the announcement: "Arriving at final destination."
-- Barbara K. Reck, Washington
* * *
My runaway-car adventure began when it refused to go into reverse as I tried to back it out of my townhouse's parking space. "Maybe if I push it out enough to go forward, I can still get to work today," I thought. But "Cutie Cutlass," as I'd nicknamed my '84 Olds, would not budge.
My neighbor and her daughter came along to help me push. Everything happened so fast after that, it is difficult to get it all recorded. Too late, I grabbed for the steering wheel in order to guide the automobile correctly, but Cutie was on her way! As she raced across the parking lot, backing toward the cars parked there, we helplessly looked on. Frantically, I ran to catch up and jump in to apply the brake, but my 60-year-old body was not quick enough. As it veered past one car, Cutie's door knocked me flat on my back. It jumped the curb and was heading toward a townhouse, but finally was stopped by the wrought-iron railing on the steps.
Damage to both car and property was negligible. I was battered and bruised. My insurance agent had a problem filling out the accident report. Who was the driver of "vehicle number one"?
Not me -- I was pushing.
-- Donna Wunrow Olsen,