Fear

He often drives me down these meandering streets of smooth asphalt.  Sometimes, he likes to let the eager engine idle, pull up resolutely on the emergency brake - turn around with piercing gaze and smirking cheeks, "So...where'd you plan on going?"


I've noticed that he never offers to let me sit in the passenger seat, assuring me convincingly that it's much safer in the backseat. He insists, in his condescending, pedantic tone, that I could drive more effectively, economically, with more impact, when I'm older, more experienced, and fully equipped. "Just study hard. Just watch closely and you won't make mistakes. Put your seatbelt on. Actually, put this helmet on. This kevlar vest too. What are you doing? Put that heart back in the glove compartment." My few protests are timid squeaks against the deafening arching of his eyebrows.


Oh, he's a good driver, don't get me wrong - always follows all the street signs, always stops neatly behind the white painted lines, always lets other cars merge first, always drives at the speed limit. Never rushes yellows. It's just that he maintains quite a deathly white-knuckled grip on the wheel. I always look doubtfully back at the telltale oil stains that my car leaves on the road, particularly in front of large forks in the road where we would sit in apologetic agony for hours on end - the gear firmly in park, and a line of cars honking and fuming behind us. 


His GPS commands the view atop the dashboard and offers intermittent quips, to which he nods in smug agreement. Yet instead of the peremptory British, the electronic voice sounds curiously like my family, my friends, my own.


Turn right, in point four miles. "You want a family, right? You're a woman, you have a time limit. The sooner you go to medical school, the quicker you get out."


Continue, for five point six miles. "Wait a bit more. I don't think your personality really matches."


Keep left in seven hundred feet. "Are you sure this is what you're called to? You're never around to help out at home."


Take ramp right. "Maybe you should take some classes now. You know, just in case they're not interested enough in you this time around."


"My God is not big enough."






And it is usually here that Fear uncharacteristically slams on the brakes, throwing us facedown to a squealing stop before the Son of Man standing in His glory. Never mind where He materialized from. When the humble weight of contrition settles amidst the trembling of the engine, I feel a different inertia begin to rise. He is suddenly by the driver's window. He wrenches the door open - Grand Theft Auto style - and with both hands, throws Fear unceremoniously into the back seat in a small heap of silly robes. (All antagonistic metaphors wear black billowing cloaks, naturally.) Then, sitting in the driver's seat, He surveys the dashboard, and without hesitation, unplugs the GPS (recalculating...recalculating...) and tosses it out the window. Satisfied, He turns to me with smiling eyes, presses the keys into my hands, and whispers,


"I call shotgun."