I was worried because around five hours ago my car seemed to be leaking; after I had pulled into my friend’s driveway and he had gotten out of the white Subaru Impreza, he pointed out that the car had left a wet trail in its winding path. I was still in the vehicle when he said this, as I had only come to give him a ride home—but once I pressed myself on the concrete with my phone’s flashlight in outstretched arm and observed the dripping myself, I decided that it warranted some concern. We determined that the unknown liquid was not gasoline, based upon our combined experience reaching beneath the car to dip our fingers in the small puddle that was forming underneath and bringing it to our nose in order to run a brief scent test, but I still decided that it would be safer to remain at his house for a while to see if the leaking stood the test of time. That was about 6 p.m., and now it was nearing 11:00. I climbed back into the vehicle with a bad taste in my mouth. The leaking had stopped, but we had spent the last two hours watching the newest Star Wars film—Solo had just been released from theaters—and we collectively agreed that it “sucked.”
I start the engine and begin to back out of the driveway.
But perhaps it was my fault for thinking that this movie would be any different. I sat through the film hoping for depth, watched Stormtroopers tragically miss their targets, and walked away in frustration. This is my flaw, and I like to think I own up to it: I keep thinking things will be different than the way that they were in the past. In reality, the next Star Wars movie will suck as much as this one, and I will leave the movie theater just as disappointed.
I turn on the GPS.
It’s pitch black and—beyond that which is in my immediate headlights—I can’t see a thing. There is, however, a system; I just have to trust it. Roads lead to highways. Highways lead to exit ramps. Exit ramps lead to more roads. Roads lead back home.
The GPS tells me to turn right.
I put on my signal and turn to the right. I can’t really see the point of signaling right now; it’s an hour to midnight and the streets are virtually empty. Plus, human civilization has all but disappeared. The big white houses, mowed lawns and southern-style pillars that make up the neighborhood of Brandon Court have been replaced by trees, trees, and more trees. But one time I did, in fact, see a group of teens emerge from the forest and walk across the road in the late night. They probably went into the forest to get drunk off their minds and were returning home, having achieved their goal. So I still signal because I have faith in the rules of the road, and I don’t have faith in people. Now that I think about it, I have faith in few things. I don’t have faith in the American political system; I think that it gives people too much power to make bad decisions. I don’t have faith in god; god didn’t help me when I needed him most. But the system produces tangible results. If you follow the system, you can succeed. My dad followed the system, and my mom followed the system, and my sister followed the system, and they’re doing pretty well. One’s a lawyer and makes a lot of money. One’s a doctor and makes a lot of money as well. And one is somewhere in Europe, making a lot of money in some city with cathedrals hundreds of years old.
The GPS tells me to turn left.
So I follow the system, and I follow it well. I turn left when I’m told to do so. Similarly, I get A’s in school and take classes that are difficult because the system tells me that getting A’s and taking difficult classes is important. I’m not necessarily happy, but the system tells me that being happy isn’t important. But I will be happy. The system tells me so, and for some reason, I believe it.
The speed limit drops. There are curves in the road. I slow down.
But I still feel alone, the system doesn’t really make good company. European history textbooks don’t give me emotional gratification, and I have no romantic interest in the steps that make up photosynthesis. Now that I think about it, I don’t even have any platonic interest in the steps of photosynthesis. None at all. But I still stay up late studying it, and I still spent a five-hour bus ride across scenic roads with my eyes buried in Tony Judt’s Postwar.
The GPS tells me to turn right.
But I don’t want to turn right. I’m tired of turning right—it never made me happy. Turning right just made other people happy. It just made other people think better of me. It made my college application prettier, and it made me more appealing to those deciding whether I am worthy. I’ve been turning right for the past seven years, and I’ve been doing so because the GPS promises me that turning right will bring me home. And I’ll be happy once I get home. Once I get home, I can do everything I wish I could have done in the car: lie down and relax, indulge my need for entertainment, go out and find a girl who likes me back, and dive into a path that actually interests me. I just have to turn right to get there, and turning right sucks. The GPS knows that turning right sucks. It feels sympathy for me, it tells me. The GPS is working hard too. I’ll turn right, I say, but this is the last time.
Proceed down the highlighted route.
We both know it’s not the last time. So long as I keep saying that it’s the last time, it will never be the last time. I’ll put off my happiness one more year again and again until I’m either free or broken. I hate it, but it holds over me the fact that it knows the way home and I don’t. I have the illusion of choice, but—
I stop the car.
There’s a deer in the road. Usually they move out of the way, but this one just stands there. I could honk, and it would probably run off, but I don’t really want to. The deer just kind of stares at me, and I kind of just stare at it. If you’ve heard the expression, “like a deer in the headlights,” you might be imagining something completely different from what is actually happening in this moment. This isn’t a helpless animal staring at its own death through uncomprehending eyes. This isn’t Bambi’s mother looking down the barrel of a rifle. This is a 250ish-pound deer with antlers that put the branches on the trees of Hope Jahren’s Lab Girl to shame, and it knows what the hell it is. It also knows what I am. I’m a seventeen-year-old boy who doesn’t know how to ignore the GPS and go down whatever road leads to emotional satisfaction. It would be foolish of me to think that I could make it move.
But then the deer moves.
It didn’t need to move, no system instructed it to do so. But it did it anyway. I’m not sure why. Maybe it got bored. Maybe it had better things to do. It definitely wasn’t scared. It just wanted to leave. It trots out of the headlights and disappears into the forests flanking the road. I can’t follow it. The road just doesn’t go there. Even if it did, the GPS would tell me that I’m deviating off the prescribed track and frantically reroute me back. And furthermore, stepping out of the car isn’t an option. I am neither physically nor emotionally prepared for the consequences of chasing down that deer. Perhaps the acceptance of these limitations is what being an adult is really about.
So I take my foot off the brake.
And the car moves slowly into the night, a small pool of liquid settling where the car once paused.