Check Engine

The check engine light in my car has been on since the fall of 2023. It’s unlike me not to address it. I’ve always been a person who took routine vehicle maintenance seriously.

But for some reason, I just don’t care.

Sometimes the light will go off for a few weeks and I’ll feel awesome about it. I’ll get in my car and turn it on and everything looks fine and I feel like a good person. Like someone who has their shit together.

But after a while it comes back on and I feel like a bad person again.

So I ignore it.

My kids ask me why it’s on and I try to explain to them about the computers inside the car and how they’re constantly checking the sensors and sometimes a random error code causes the check engine light to come on for no reason.

But they don’t look at me like I’m smart or anything.

They wonder why I just don’t take it in and get it fixed.

I wonder why I just don’t take it in and get it fixed.

Then I realize it’s because I don’t care. And it kind of makes me feel better. Like I’m a little bit less of a bad person who doesn’t have his shit together.

I explore the possibility that my apathy could be a strength rather than a weakness.

I experiment with the notion that it represents my yearning for some kind of freedom from the burden of having to constantly care for so many things. The anxiety I feel that comes from always worrying that everything needs my full attention all the time, eases up just a tiny bit.

Instead of impending doom, the check engine light becomes my reminder that not everything is always such a huge deal. It becomes a much-needed, tiny piece of evidence that someone or something much bigger than a frayed sensor or burned-out relay switch is looking out for me.

I need that.

I need to believe it.

I choose to believe it.

I am addicted to believing it.

I get a lot of messages from friends in other countries asking me what it’s like here right now and I tell them it’s fucking horrible.

I feel like a hostage.

I feel like there’s nothing I can do.

Protesting doesn’t really work in America. When Americans try to protest it just turns into a street party. Everyone brings their super clever protest signs and they post pictures of themselves on social media and it just looks like they’re at a college football game.

What I honestly want to tell people is that I’m just so sorry. I’m so sorry that we’ve become such horrible people who do and say such horrible things.

Watching them tear apart Zelensky in the oval office was one of the most disturbing and embarrassing spectacles I’ve ever witnessed.

They might as well have said, “Who do you think you are you dirty fucking jew?” I could see it in their faces and hear it in their voices.

I know those faces and voices well.

My father calls me and asks how things are going. He’s old and his health is failing so I try not to tell him too much because I don’t want him to have to worry about me. I’ve caused the man a lot of grief over the years and I’m fairly determined to try and allow him to leave this world with a clear conscience.

“Things are good,” I say. “It’s just a little slow right now. I think it’ll pick up soon.”

He doesn’t believe me and three days later a check shows up in my mailbox.

My heart sinks.

I’m 54 years old and my dad still has to send me money. I want to send the check back to him. But I can’t. I need the money to make it through the month or pay for a birthday party or piano lessons or camp.

I begin to consider the possibility that the check engine light is somehow involved.

Maybe it has somehow hardwired itself into my psyche?

Maybe it isn’t about the car at all?

Maybe the check engine light is me?

Thanks for reading. I'll see you again real soon.