Firsts

My first car was a red, tiny thing. Almost plastic-like, she had roll-up windows and punch-down locks. I named her “Juegato,” which means something like “little toy” in Spanish.

I paid for her in cash. Three thousand dollars. I remember spending weekends crawling through the automotive section of the Recycler, hoping to find something cheap and also cute. My first car was not going to be a mom’s car. When I found the compact section, and then the cheapo Hundais, and then a red one at that, I was sold. I crossed my fingers all the way to the mechanic. She cleared the inspection and I got to drive my little toy away.

Having a car in La Jolla meant freedom. I was in my last year of college at UCSD and that city is not fun for pedestrians. Sure, we could spend our Saturdays at Ralphs and AMC, rolling shopping carts down the aisles lazily and then staying for double features, but in order to get to the real action, you had to drive.

My first job off campus was north, at a synagogue, helping a six-year-old boy with Autism through Sunday school. It was the worst. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. He didn’t talk, he couldn’t write, and when he was being wild and I was supposed to calm him down by putting him into a bear hug, he pinched.

I drove home down the 5 every Sunday afternoon with the windows cranked open, air blowing over my face, hair whipping around, country radio blazing out of the tinny speakers. As the miles added up, my spirit rose. It was good to be in the driver’s seat.