The commute to work is treacherous on foot, but it is something I’ve mastered over hundreds of repetitions. Today is no different. In less than twenty minutes after leaving home, I’ve checked in with my badge. I turn a blind eye to my right foot as it tears up in discomfort, a red flag beneath my sock. The left keeps its pain to itself. Today is Wednesday, and I still don’t know how to drive. I blame the lack of buses, pointing the barrel at the urban planners as if it would unriddle my feet of its bullets.
After six hours, I find myself in a community gated by distance, fifteen miles away from civilization with the name of a colonizer. The haves convene after a half-day of teaching the have nots, flipping burgers out of their own volition. I have some, though the pleasure is diluted by the fact that I merely learned not to act like the alien I am. I will smile and wave. I will learn how to play cornhole. I will applaud during bittersweet moments of farewell as the haves tear up in each other’s comfort. When budgets are halved, the haves will still own their quarters. The “not” of the have nots becomes the completion of a noose.
Today is Wednesday, and despite all the thoughts and insecurities racing through my mind, I feel happy.
Prior to the party, I had understood cars to be vehicles of exclusion. Instead of commuting with their community, drivers go out on their own in what shapes up to be a grand, rugged individualist narrative. The end result is an array of prison cells on wheels, each a contributor to an impending climate catastrophe. However, as much as I advocate for the collective, the collective can be overwhelming. When I ride a bus alone, I do so in silence knowing that between me and the people around me, we know nothing about each other. I glue myself to my phone with the understanding that any information coming out of my mouth becomes public, appropriated at the speed of sound and processed in a way that listeners see fit. In an era where Internet clout treads on the remnants of privacy, choosing to leave home in the first place creates a cost-benefit calculation dependent on your distrust of being recorded. Even today, the consequences of the pandemic linger. Isolation continues to erode our faith in communication. Our fear of scrutiny at work and in public keeps the proverbial mask on our face.
I was admittedly motivated by my own comfort when I decided which coworker I would carpool to the party with. After all, I don’t go out much, I’m socially awkward, and I’m the youngest in a workplace with people who could feasibly take me in as their son or grandson. Speaking with someone from my own generation, however, made for a surprisingly therapeutic car ride. In the comfort of a small, air-conditioned box on the road, conversation came naturally. We talked about what life was like in high school. I shared my career struggles and aspirations. Video games entered the discussion—Balatro, League of Legends, even Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Links. By the time I got out of the car, I forgot how physically and mentally exhausted I’d been at the start of my week. Pain no longer mattered in a meaningful capacity. Even when I kept my distance from the crowd, I could relish the afternoon breeze with the knowledge that in my own way, I was living in the moment with other human beings doing the same.
While I thought my decision to attend would primarily teach me how to enjoy a good party, the process of getting there enlightened my understanding of carpooling as an exercise in mutual trust. When getting in a car with someone feels better than public transportation, it is because both people have a better sense of what they’re getting themselves into. I was riding with a coworker a few years older than me who I didn’t get a chance to know, and the questions they asked showed that they perceived me similarly. I have ridden more times than I can recall with two friends I’ve known since middle and high school, a level of trust that goes without saying. In settings as private as a car ride, having even fragments of knowledge about people makes them approachable and alleviates the pressure of creating icebreakers for conversation. There may be nobody else to talk to, but having the information necessary to start makes it worthwhile.
Despite my epiphany, I’m still not a fan of cars. Any antisocial consequences of shared public space are inconsequential in comparison to the damage cars have done to society, arguably including those same consequences if you consider car culture’s emphasis on individualism. However, the seating on most cars rejects the notion of solitary confinement. If cars are truly the prison that I described them as, society would benefit if people offered themselves as cellmates. In the right circumstances, we should ride with our friends, coworkers we don’t know, and other well-meaning people irrespective of class or politics. The more opportunities we create to have unfettered conversations with people in our communities, the easier it will be to trust each other and make our public space the haven it was always meant to be. In a sense, prison will be what sets us free.
I enter the car of a more familiar coworker in the evening, someone I get mistaken for enough to the point where I bring it up with them as a running tally. The conversation on the way back is reflective. We discuss the neighborhood surrounding the party, an affluent suburb dropped in the middle of a farm. With them moving up the ladder next year, we talk about what the team will look like in the future. We drive by protestors on the street and commiserate over the rise of fascism in the United States, though not before they honk at the crowd in solidarity. I give a “hell yeah” as a side comment, allowing myself to breathe with the mask off. When it becomes time for me to leave the car, I do so with gratitude, silently recognizing that the most universal of the haves is to have each other. You won’t hear this, but thank you for trusting me.