Four-Wheeled Fantasies

by Beatrice Hogg

When I was younger, and pre-menopausal, I used to dream about sex. Images of nocturnal interludes with young, blond musicians used to wake me up with a smile on my face. But now, at 58, most of my dreams are about cars. Sitting behind the wheel of my very own car — the lure of freedom, the promise of adventure, the feeling of power — is the stuff that my middle-aged dreams are made of.

I haven’t owned a car since 2001. On September 5, a week before 9/11, my midnight blue Mazda Miata convertible was repossessed. I only had it for a year and it was a bad decision from the start. First of all, my $600 car payment was more than my rent. Why an auto dealer with any kind of morals or ethics would have approved me for a car loan is still beyond my comprehension.

In the first six months of ownership, the car was hit twice in the same parking lot. I couldn’t buy more than one bag of groceries, travel with more than one small suitcase or take both of my cats to the vet. And then there was always the fear of being smashed by a semi driver that couldn’t see my car in his mirror.

But, as with many long ago bad relationships, I only choose to remember the good times. Sunny Saturday mornings, driving to Napa, just because. Entering Monterey for a conference with the stereo blasting, competing with the crashing waves. Even though I have had cars since I was fifteen, it is the only car that I never took a photograph of. Sometimes I wonder if it ever really existed. All that remains is an empty keychain.

In California, car ownership is almost a necessity. Even though I am a big believer in public transportation and bike ownership, California employers are not as enlightened in their hiring practices. Since my last full time job in 2008, employers have told me over the phone that my qualifications sounded “perfect” for a job, only to have my interview cancelled when I mentioned that I was carless. One employer told me to call back if I got a car in the next two weeks.

In 2011, I was one of two candidates being considered for a social services job, a job I desperately needed. But when the mileage allowance was discussed and I said that I didn’t have a car, I was told that I couldn’t be hired. Even though there had been no mention of a car in the job posting, and my assurances that I could get a car within two weeks, the job was given to the other candidate. Two months later, I became homeless. It infuriates me that despite increasing air pollution, traffic jams, fluctuating gas prices, and a drought, people in California are still forced to own cars. Not only in the social services field, where employees are now required to transport clients in their own vehicles, but even sedentary jobs such as cashier and receptionist require applicants to have “private personal transportation.”

For the last three years, I have been staying at a friend’s house while looking for permanent work. Since she had witnessed firsthand how the car requirement had eliminated many positions from my consideration, she told me that if she got a new car, she would sell her two-decade old station wagon to me. But when she got a new car for Christmas, she opted to sell or give the car to her son, who already had a car, truck, and five motorcycles. I was crushed; I wasn’t even given the opportunity to purchase the car, as she had promised. Since then, I have seriously thought about reconsidering my will to live.

But I still have my dreams. Just last night, I dreamed of driving to Vancouver, British Columbia. I was happy and carefree, anticipating new experiences beyond every bend, more than I ever got from my rock star fantasies. I enter contests to try to win a car, or win enough money to purchase a car. I send letters to “Ellen,” begging to be a deserving recipient of a new car. Every year when a local radio station grants Christmas wishes, I forward my car request, hoping that this will be the year for me. For the last six months, I have paid a monthly fee to Zipcar, even though once I pay the fee, I rarely have the $8.50 left to rent a car for an hour.

To live in California without access to a car is to be nonexistent. To be over fifty, long term unemployed, and carless is feeling that you will never be a part of the world again. These days, when I wake up from a sound sleep, with my hands still clutching that imaginary steering wheel, I cry.

Beatrice M. Hogg is a coal-miner’s daughter and freelance writer who was raised in Western Pennsylvania and has lived in Northern California for twenty-five years, where she wrote her novel, Three Chords One Song, and continues to write about music, long-term unemployment and life in general.

EDITOR’S NOTE: If you’d like to help Beatrice out, she has set up a GoFundMe page.

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