The Adventure, Part IV, or Joseph K. Rents a Car

The amazing thing about the San Francisco airport, to me, is that I ever managed to find my way out of it. The signs posted never tell you to turn here; the place you wanted just drops away, and you’re left to wander endlessly like the Flying Dutchman. Had it not been for the kindness of a succession of strangers, I’m pretty sure that I would still be looking for the tram to the car rental agencies, already semi-legendary and entirely doomed.

And yet, get to the car rental agency I did. The agent asked where I was headed, and I told him San Rafael. He winced and said in the voice of one who had seen too much, “Oooh. It’s rush hour. Traffic’s pretty bad. It’ll take you at least an hour.”

I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I’m from Atlanta, G-A, where it sometimes takes an hour to get out of the driveway and into traffic. Getting over 30 miles through the middle of a city at rush hour in 60 minutes is our equivalent to teleportation. Savoring my smugness, I gathered my belongings and the various folders and documents he had assembled for me and found my way to the parking garage to get the car.

Now, perhaps I’ve led a sheltered life, but in my experience of renting cars, a particular vehicle was always either driven up or pointed out. That was the car that had been determined by some higher power that I should drive until I returned it with the gas tank full some time later. But that’s not how these Northern California free spirits worked. As I walked out into the parking deck, the guy who passes out the cars said to me, “What are you getting? A medium?” (I swear. He didn’t say “midsize.” He said “medium” like I was ordering a coffee. And then I looked up at the sign dangling from the ceiling. It said “medium,” too. I wasn’t in Oz anymore.)

So, he points to a selection of vehicles and says, “Just take any one of those.” No higher power. No computer matching of driver to ride. Just my questionable knowledge of automobiles and color preferences to guide me. A vague, Kafkaesque feeling burbled up inside me. Which would it be? I am a foreigner. An alien. I must be as inconspicuous as possible. But wait! What’s this? A red Grand Am? Hot spit! I want one!

I got in the car and put my belongings in the passenger seat. I turned the key, and it started, purring like the proverbial kitten. Like ice cream melting in a microwave, I could feel myself change. Or maybe it was like Kool-Aid in the freezer, because I was getting cooler by the second. The windows were open, so I pulled on the switches to power them closed. And nothing happened.

I pushed down on the switches. Nothing. I tried them separately. Zero. In a matter of seconds, my self image went from the “James Bond” setting to somewhere around “Mortimer Snerd.” I turned off the car, gathered my things, and proceeded to a nice, almost invisible vehicle a couple of spaces down.

It wasn’t a Grand Am. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure what model it was. It didn’t say on the front or the back. I got in and looked at the glove box. Nothing. So I looked at the steering wheel. Apparently, I was driving a Chevy Airbag. Fortified with this knowledge, I started it up, checked the power windows to make sure that they worked, put it in gear, and sallied forth to meet my fate.

Tomorrow, Part V: You Can’t Get There from He—Oh, Wait, Yes You Can