Sub-subtext

Driving home yesterday in the light and shadows created by the November sun; car air freshener tapping gently against the University parking tag on the rearview mirror. Stainless steel coffee mug, empty, in the cup holder on the dash. Can of diet coke, empty, in the cup holder between the seats. A school bus turned off the highway, lurching awkwardly down a dirt road. I found myself wondering if old No. 2 pencils and school buses are supposed to complement each other—both yellow, trimmed in black. Ubiquitous symbols of…what? Freedom and control, I suppose.

It’s often that I find myself wondering what it is that pulls me off of my axis, and then I get some not-so subtle clues. For example, I went into Enterprise Rent-a-Car this Tuesday, the place in which I have, in the past, mistakenly given expired credit cards. The place in which I have, in the past, thought I had all the necessary paperwork to use my debit card (utility bills, cable bills, pay stub—all of which is extremely anxiety producing—everyone knows everyone’s business here anyway, even without documented proof), only to find out that to rent a car, I need a driver’s license for the state. Upon relaying this information to me, they allow a driver take me to the DMV, and upon getting an awful picture taken, I find out they don’t take debit or credit cards, and the driver gives me a twenty that I pay him back as he gases the car up across the street from Enterprise. There’s a fine line between luck and embarrassment here. Needless to say, everyone there knows who I am when I walk in the door. The morning I went to pick up the car, S.O. told me something about our Visa—all I remembered was “credit available.”

The new incompetent woman, heavy set, with thin blonde hair, sprayed into an unnatural and spiky geometric shape, asked me repeatedly –didn’t I just want to use a credit card instead of going through the hassle of using my debit card, with all of the required paperwork? So I pull out the Visa. She swipes it. Looks confused. Swipes it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. No, seriously—and again. With each. Consecutive. Swipe. My anxiety level rachets several notches. She calls over another agent—you know, the one who waited on me during the DMV episode? That agent swipes the card (again). Then she looks at the screen and says in slow mo: “It says that your card has been declined and that we have to confiscate your card.”

The top of my head blows off from the pressure of all the blood that has accumulated in my face. I can smell the onions dripping in my armpits. I call Visa. They tell me that no, I don’t have any credit right now and that I need to speak with the woman who has been helping us make payment arrangements. And by the way, she’s gone for the day. So, I tell the Incompetent and the Confiscator that I will (as I should have done in the first place) use my debit card. I go out to the car and try to find some bills that I just happened to have with me that will suffice. The only ones I can find have OVERDUE on the first page. They make copies of my overdue bills. They swipe my debit card.

It is declined. At this point, you are probably, like them, about to doubt what I have to tell you. But believe me when I say this. I had money in the account. I had just gotten paid. They swipe my OTHER debit card. It is declined. The Incompetent drives me to the ATM, and inexplicably, my card works. She then drives me to the gas station (you know, the one where I got the money to pay back the driver for buying my new driver’s license?) so that I can get a money order. To this day I do not know why my debit cards did not work. What was God/Goddess trying to tell me? Don’t answer that. We go back to Enterprise and I drive off in the car.

Things like this take me off my axis (or should I say, knock me on my ass?). For the rest of the week it was like the world was too small, or unexpectedly lopsided. I dropped things, stumbled up steps and over words, bumped my head getting in and out of the car. It’s taken a while, but I’m finally getting to the point where I can walk steadily again.

Enterprise-Rent-a-Car is a symbol of…what? Freedom and control, I suppose. And like kids need buses and pencils, I need them. That is, until we get a second car. Then I’ll drive by Enterprise in my new (used) car. And like teachers who’ve had poor kids give them the finger upon graduation, the Incompetent and the Confiscator will just smile and wave.