Your Driver Is Waiting

by Priya Guns

How do you know how to live when you’ve never been given the freedom to?

I don’t know why we’re born, but I think a lot of people waste so much time not thinking about what they could do to make the world a little better. Make their own lives a little better. Even though I didn’t know how to make mine any better than it was. I worried that I would die in my car. That I would die unfulfilled. Or that I would die and not know what an easy day felt like. I worried that if I ever did, I would still not be happy inside.

Dr. Thelma Hermin Hesse was my therapist. Well, she had thirty-five thousand subscribers, so she was all of theirs too, and anyone else who tuned in to her free content.

I was poised, likeable (I thought), contained as in I was on a level of myself I knew was manageable to those around me. Of course, I grew up knowing what spaces I could fill, where I needed to be slightly smaller, and where I could truly be myself.

In one of her videos, Dr. Thelma Hermin Hesse had said that it was important to take the time we needed for ourselves so we didn’t burn out like a withered flame. Behind her was Mount Kīlauea rupturing in rage. No one was actually obligated to do anything, she added. I knew that was irresponsible of her to say and my bank balance proved it, but I still watched the whole video, mesmerized by magma and technology.

I squirmed in my seat, thinking that I could get out of my car and join them, but I needed at least three more pings to end the night and I was hoping for larger tips because the fare charges wouldn’t be enough. I could’ve been there with the rest of the city, but I wasn’t. Baa, baa. Who were the sheep anyways? I wanted to be one of those people holding megaphones, leading crowds into chants. I was useless in my car, even though I was essential and working in order to survive. I was nobody if I wasn’t there.

The city has jagged edges and it sits in my hand.