You have the key. You are in the driver’s seat. You have a reservation and a destination and a schedule.
You cannot make this vehicle exist.
The Ignition Search
There’s no keyhole. There’s no obvious button. There is a fob in your hand that looks like a garage remote from 2004.
You press the brake and push the fob into a slot that turns out to be a coin tray.
You find a button that says START. You press it. Nothing. You press it eleven more times, faster each time, which is not how any machine has ever worked.
The Foot Discovery
Twenty seconds later you learn you have to have your foot on the brake.
The car starts. You feel a wave of relief and also a small collapse of self-respect, because you are 40 years old and you just needed four attempts to power on a Nissan.
The Gear Shift Interpretive Dance
It’s not a stick. It’s not a column shifter.
It’s a small toggle nub that springs back to center after every input, so you have no idea what gear you selected. You have to read a tiny illuminated letter on the dash to find out.
You aim for Reverse. You get Neutral. You try again. You get Reverse. You’ve been in this parking space for four minutes.
The Parking Brake Mystery
There’s a light on. It’s an exclamation point in a circle, which in car-language means either “parking brake engaged” or “brake system catastrophic failure.”
You look for a lever. There is no lever. There’s a small button somewhere near your left knee. You find it by touch, like reading braille.
The Mirror Situation
Adjusted for someone six inches shorter than you who apparently drove without looking behind them.
The controls are on the door. Or the dash. Or in a menu on the touchscreen, which requires you to navigate two submenus to move a mirror, which is a genuine crime.
The Wiper Incident
It starts raining. You reach for where the wipers are on your car.
You activate the high beams. Then the turn signal. Then you honk.
You honked at nobody, in a parking garage, in a car that isn’t yours. Someone looked.
You find the wipers. They come on at maximum speed, whipping frantically across a windshield with four drops on it, and you cannot make them slower for the next six minutes.
The Radio Ghost
Whatever the last renter listened to comes on at volume 26.
It’s either sports talk or something in a language you don’t speak or Christian rock, and it is very, very loud, and the volume knob is not a knob.
The Gas Cap Coin Flip
At the station: which side is the tank on?
There’s a tiny arrow next to the fuel gauge that tells you this. You have never once remembered to look at it before pulling in.
You pull in wrong. You have to reverse and loop the entire lot while someone waits.
The Return
You’ve finally learned the car. You know the wipers, the shifter, the mirrors, the radio. You and this car have an understanding now.
You return it at 6:00 AM in a dark garage and never see it again.
Next trip, it’ll be a different make, and you’ll start over from zero, pressing START with your foot off the brake, eleven times, faster and faster.