Please Input A Destination
This story has also been published in Goosewax Online Journal. You can read it here.
She doesn’t have an opinion. The late afternoon sunlight filters through the trees onto the classic wood table, a neat stack of untouched books at the center. The book on the screen of the tablet fades away, ideas buzz in her mind. Who has opinions on driving?
A blue car buzzes past out the window as she wonders if anyone still drives like that—long, scenic treks through the world, no destination needed. Lyra lets the book close, satisfied in knowing her accomplishment will broadcast to her friend circle as a neat, black check-mark on her carefully curated reading list filled with old classics. The mark of a cultured person.
Or someone trying to justify her English Literature degree, to quote her mother. The web browser automatically reopens with the listing for Oxford’s MFA. She tapes the button to add it to her private notebook of MFA listings.
Tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair, her shoes by the door catch her attention. And that’s that. An impulsive decision for some who takes ten minutes to decide what she wants at Starbucks. The door of the modest black car in the driveway fails to unlock when she slides her thumb over it. Right. Phone. Lyra returns from the house, device in hand, and the door unlocks, a chipper British voice welcoming her back. When navigation system prompts her to input a destination, she selects the manual drive option in a further fit of old-fashioned inspiration and backs out of the driveway. The suburban streets are silent with the haze of a Sunday afternoon in August.
She winds through her neighborhood before realizing she has to make decisions or circle around the neighborhood forever. Exiting to a major road, she sits at a green light, breathing it in. Left or right. The power of shaping the unknown is so exciting. She turns right, after impatient honks from the person behind her.
She is buzzing past normal-looking stores and restaurants when a notification pops up on her windshield.
You seem to have a bit of difficulty driving today. Would you prefer to switch to automatic? Say “yes” or “no.”
“No.”
She tries to make her way out of town, eventually succeeding after multiple wrong turns—things are different without a GPS. Vague impressions guide her to the highway, heading west. Sunset begins to color the sky and her GPS prompts her to input a destination.
“Mute navigation,” she says, for the fourth time in as many minutes.
Silence rings in her ears. A green sign for an exit she’s never taken passes overhead. Perfect. The pink and red tints of the sunset are reaching back, erasing the blue. After turning onto a smaller road, with no other cars in sight, the navigation system pops up again. This time insisting on reading the message, out loud, to her.
“You seem lost, would you like help?”
“I’m not lost.”
“You seem lost, would you like help?”
“Mute navigation.”
“You seem lost, would you like help?”
“Mute navigation.”
Third time’s the charm. The audio ceases as the warning shrinks into the corner.
A new road—at least to her. It’s quaint. She feels transported to the book she has just finished. The barbed wire fences try and fail to keep the grass in. Only glimpses of the fence posts were visible between the tall grass in the bar pit, waving hello to its friends in the fields.
Everything is lit with dying sunlight and looks like a light-bleached photograph from fifty years ago. She is driving into the past. Into a simple, older world. A freer world. A surge of exhilaration tingles down her spine. She can go anywhere. Keep driving with no destination forever. Or at least until the car needs charging.
She passes an old building nestled between the fields—all abandoned bricks and broken glass. A free standing roof still covers odd shapes she recognizes from old photographs. Vines climb up a faded sign, the name of the gas station no longer visible. The fields creep back and everything is calm. Just seas of—
“Hello, ma’am, are you all right?”
The American voice startles her. She jerks the wheel to the left, over correcting to get back in her lane.
“Ma’am?”
“I’m fine, who are you?”
“I’m an emergency operator. Your car’s safety system alerted us to alarming driving patterns. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m just out for a drive.”
It might be her favorite phrase from that book.
“Okay. Where are you going?”
He isn’t doing a good job hiding his patronizing tone.
“Nowhere in particular, just driving.”
“Okay. But what is your end destination?”
“I don’t have one.”
The voice is silent. She feels the need to clarify further.
“I’m just out for a drive, enjoying the scenery.”
“Why didn’t you use one of the scenic drive options?”
“I wanted to just drive. You know, no destination in mind, wind in my hair, all that old movie jazz.”
“Ma’am, why don’t I input your home destination for you and turn on automatic control?”
He isn’t attempting to hide his patronizing tone anymore.
“No,” she insists, “I’m fine. Just enjoying a drive. I study old literature and I’m—”
The car slows. She presses the gas pedal to the floor. Nothing. The green automatic mode light hums on the panel. Pressing manual drive does nothing.
“Ma’am. I’ve input your home destination. A Safety Representative will be in contact to discuss this incident.”
“What?”
“Ma’am, our technology provides you with safe transport between destinations. This behavior violates the terms of service. A Safety Representative will be in contact to discuss this incident. Have a safe trip home.”
Silence takes over again, no longer a comforting passenger. She takes her hands off the wheel, folds them in her lap and the car turns down another road, heading back towards the highway. Staring at grass waving in the fields does nothing to calm the rising panic in her chest.
A month later, the car is in the driveway. The Safety Representative lets her off with a strong warning, some restrictions to her license privileges, and recommends therapy. She would have skipped the therapy—it was all a misunderstanding—but the appointment pops up on her calendar. Every Monday, 2pm, like clockwork.
She is home from the weekly appointment. Though she has lost her Class 2 driving endorsement, it doesn’t matter. The car takes her wherever she wants to go. She still feels a slight twinge of shame looking at the grayed-out manual option. She pushes the button once, but learns it no longer responds. Except to cause a reprimand from her therapist, concerned about her need to control everything. But that was three weeks ago. Now her therapist is only recommending two more sessions. She says Lyra has shown greater improvement in a shorter time than she has ever seen from a patient.
The neat white mailbox at the end of the driveway is usually empty. Today it contains a single yellow envelope with a piece of paper welcoming her to Oxford’s MFA program and noting other necessary information will follow in an email. An old-fashioned tradition, but old habits die hard.