by Barry Parham

Created on: January 17, 2010

General Relativity Motors

(Parallel parking in a parallel universe)

I own an invisible car.

I know. I understand your doubt. It was hard for me to believe, too. But it's the only thing left that makes sense. This many drivers can't all be out to get me, and they can't all be out of their minds.

Invisibility is the only remaining rational explanation.

It certainly makes more sense than trying to believe in some kind of coordinated, punitive pan-galactic anti-me attack, or the sheer mathematical improbabilities required to support the existence of that many insane people.

Maybe it happens to you, too. You're driving along, at or under speed, in your own lane. You're not eating, or texting, or applying makeup. You're not contorting into the backseat to discipline misbehaving short people. Then, suddenly, off to the right, a grandmother launches her dust-streaked rice rocket right past that confusing, apparently optional, octagon-shaped red road sign, completely oblivious to you and your optics-challenged car. You shriek and slam on the brakes, just prior to soul-kissing her "I Heart My Grandkids" bumper sticker.

On other occasions, drivers ahead of me, who obviously can't see me, will just stop in the middle of the road. Just stop. Just brake, hold, pop a window and strike up a conversation with somebody in the adjacent yard, or the oncoming lane.

And then there's Testosterone Boy and his gothic date, The Attack Of The Mascara Monster, abruptly discharging his multi-story, metal-bar-enclosed, monster truck out of the Smoke 'N' Go parking lot, directly into the eyelashes of my headlights, causing me to emit extremely non-Sunday language.

Not that that helps. It does no good to yell. Remember - you're invisible. Now, you're wildly waving at passing clouds and birds, and the future parole candidate just keeps on weaving down the road, checking in on his text messages, and checking out his young coed co-pilot with the sweater-threatening upper body assets. Now, you're in need of blood pressure meds, and Captain "Yes, In Fact I Do Own The Whole Darn Road" just keeps veering toward his mustard-stained destination at the Pile-O-Burger, totally angst-agnostic.

I think that's part of the problem:  in our current culture, I have a relatively small car. I own one of the few remaining one-story motor vehicles on Earth. But then, I'm a Luddite on lots of levels. I have a cell phone that does nothing except make phone calls, if you can imagine such a foul, futile thing.

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