Four wheels

No. I am not cheap. But seven grand is a lot of money. Or so I thought.

Rewind to November 3rd, 2008. I pass the driving test as if it was child’s play and victoriously claim my New Jersey driver’s license. The day passes gleefully, with the lingering elation that comes from winning a battle. I bask in the glory as I continue to receive congratulations for the feat. The celebration however is short lived. By any stretch of imagination, identification at cigarette stores is about the only use I can put the license to. Unless I have a car.

Now, I am the kind of guy who has a very powerful imagination; the kind of guy who lives out an entire alternate life in one little corner of the brain. It could be anything from a fantastic body to exceptional genius rivaled only by Einstein. When the little corner comes to life, you could be sitting in a public trash can, eating Tiramisu in one of New York’s finest Italian restaurants, and you wouldn’t know the difference. It fills up with amazing speed and starts to spill over. The unreal makes another vain attempt to enter the realm of the real. Colloquial usage terms this as ‘building castles in the air’, as aptly put by one fervent critic of mine. Also aptly criticized is the distorted idea that ‘two in the bush’ is somehow inexplicably, and contrary to reason, superior to ‘one in the hand’.

My obsession with BMWs is quite widely known. Also widely known is the fact that I am the lowly software developer who has taken the place of better, more deserving programmers in the abysmal universe of IT laborers. I am cooking up fantasies of a cheap BMW in good condition with decent interior upholstery. The mind however is a peculiar entity, with almost a life of its own. Great men have struggled through life trying to control the mind. Very few succeeded. I, as always, fail miserably. I look into various car sale websites looking for that perfect car for the perfect price.

Every car is either too big or too small. No car gives enough fuel economy and no car gives enough performance. The concept of trade-off escapes the mind as it continues to dwell in the alternate universe where everything comes, and comes at no cost. As more and more hours pass, I begin to realize that this is not as easy as it looks. There are just too many variables. I am introduced to the idea of looking for car sale advertisements in laundry rooms. I scan a few of them, but find nothing. The perfect car (read BMW) continues to elude me.

One rainy evening a few days later, I receive the email that had the potential to change all of this. A friend is leaving to India and is on a selling spree. The 2005-made car, listed at seven and a half grand, is a prize by any standard. As I will realize later, the mind has already slipped into the corner. I see the 7.5 grand as going ‘all in’. My limit is 5.5 grand. It raises the alarm in my head.. Around me, good fellows suggest that it is just two grand more and it is worth every penny. But the mind blocks out all reasoning. I continue to look at the cost price with hate in my eyes. More good fellows extend persuasive encouragement to accept this benediction. The mind blocks out all reasoning. I recede to the delusive fulfillment of the little corner.

That Tuesday comes as a surprise and some solace. The office is giving out chocolate cookies from 2 to 3 PM. I wait expectantly for 2 o'clock. The usual afternoon is torpid. Tuesday afternoon turns electric. I open the door and step into the hallway. The luscious smell of fresh chocolate sweeps me off my feet. I suck in deep breaths of the delicious flavor until I can feel it in every cell. And my eyes fall upon The Fountain. It is a small staged recirculation unit, a flat rounded plate at the top and a larger cup right below it. The thick liquid makes its way up to the top of the plate and ambles quietly over the edge, descending into the cup below with a unique unparalleled radiance. The cup fills up and the liquid lazily spills over to the base, only to make its way up again. My eyes feast on this spectacular event. Pure, unadulterated golden brown Chocolate. Time stops. The mind is, for once, free. I feel bliss. The distinction between the real and the unreal becomes irrelevant. I am happy.

The idea of seven grand continues to run amok in my head. The mind, as I said, is a peculiar entity. When persisted with, enough, an untouchable idea loses resistance and ultimately finds acceptance. My mind is no exception. Two days and several hours later, seven grand is not preposterous anymore. I make peace. Peace leads to a frantic attempt to try and acquire the car. I am too late. I have been beaten by a buyer with an evident higher power of reasoning. The spectacle of the afternoon starts to fade away.

Mr. Opportunity knocked politely at the open front door. When all I had to do was nod, I reached out and slammed the door on his face, probably after stomping on his foot.

I am cheap.

I ramble on ...

The following takes place between 7:16 AM and 7:33 AM.

Wrapped in my Turkish towel, I step out of the shower after a warm lazy bath. Instantly, I realize I am in for trouble. Its 7:16 on the clock and the morning New Jersey Transit bus is just 15 odd minutes away.

I begin to dress with a growing sense of panic. I look at the watch every 30 seconds, trying to time every move and back calculate the time I have left. I seem to be quite fast. So I skip a few 30-second-time-checks in an attempt to eliminate the precious seconds wasted in looking at the watch. It turns out that I am not as fast as I think. Now as I finish buttoning my shirt, a full 7 minutes have passed. I panic. I lift the top of the Samsonite hand bag and reach for the first trouser I can find. I yank it out and put one leg through.

The phone rings. I have to take this call. The meeting is one hour away and I have no clue what we have done in the past 24 hours. I have to take this call. I struggle with the other leg, thrusting it through the trouser. The wet foot finds the end of the trouser and sticks on. I push harder but the foot is stubborn. I reach down and wrench the end from my foot and continue. I realize another minute is up in my struggle to look decent. I lunge for the phone and push the talk button. No answer. Apparently, they hang up as I pick up. "Hello." "Hello!" "Hellooooo!!!" Hello turns into "O-Hell!!!"

I return the call as I reach for the belt. Belts serve no purpose other than to satisfy popular perception of complete attire. The phone is wedged between my ear and my shoulder, as I force the belt through each flap. I pause with the belt to dial the extension, then wedge the handset back in its place, between my ear and my shoulder. It starts to slip. I press harder with my shoulder. My ear lobe starts to ache. But I cannot stop lest I risk missing my ride. So I continue to push the belt and the phone. The female moronic voice breaks at the other end of the line yet again. "The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the beep." Beep! The cell phone begins to ring. Here I am, pushing leather through trouser flaps with the wrong phone to my ear and my caller waiting on the other line. I finish buckling the belt and the cell replaces the handset between my ear and shoulder.

I shut the laptop down and wrap the power cord as I continue on the phone. I take another look at the watch. 11 minutes and 30 seconds have passed. I am not sure how much time I have. I put the laptop and the cord in the bag and race back inside to get my jacket and cap. The phone continues to distract me, slowing me down, wasting invaluable seconds. I lose track of time for a moment, sitting down at the steps wearing my shoes and conversing at the same time. Eventually I snap out of it and start down the stairs and out toward the bus stop.

I realize that I have no idea when exactly the bus arrives. I continue walking realizing that I might not make it in time. I curse my tardiness. My mind replays the last 10 minutes and I regret wasting minutes I could have saved. I half expect the bus to go by me any minute. Every step forward adds a little more hope. It also adds a growing sense of apprehension that it might all be in vain if I missed my ride by a whisker. And of course, there is this whole other question of low self confidence and low self esteem combined with paralyzing fear. For now comes the act of paying the bus fare.

I need $2.15/-. As I near the bus stand, I pull the wallet out, only to find that I have run out of 1 dollar bills. I frantically reach for the bag and dig out whatever change I have. Murphy's law applies. All I can find are nickels and dimes. I continue excavation, examining every find for signs of a quarter. The first one comes up with the fourth dig. Two more come shortly, and then two more until I find all the money I need. And more. My hands are cold by now. I have no gloves on. I can barely hold the coins together. I am wary of attempting to return the nickels and retain the quarters in my hand, for I have no control over my fingers. I risk losing all the coins in the attempt. So I continue to hold on to them as I work out the logistics of returning the nickels to the bag. I can see the bus approaching.

A wave of elation sweeps over me. After all, I have not missed the bus. But there is the other problem. The fare. I grapple with the coins as they switch from one hand to the other. Eventually, I have all I need safely in one hand, while I return the remaining coins to the bag. The bus pulls up and two others board the bus with me. I am the last. By this time, my hands are totally numb. Motor signals from the brain do not translate to equivalent motion of fingers. I cling on to the coins for dear life. What if they spilled out of my hand? I will have to scout for every coin and there is no way I will be able to dig up more of them. I reach the ticketing machine and start inserting the coins one by one. The driver pulls out with a jerk and I drop three of the quarters. They are strewn all over the steps. As I bend down to collect them, I hear the driver's Spanish complaints. I can hear more voices from the back of the bus, and they are quite delighted with the incident.

The idea of public humiliation is remarkably similar across cultures that are otherwise widely differing. The power of collective persona is overwhelming. It corners you into believing that the concept of grace and ineptitude is uniform across the pack of preying humans. Every move thereon is closely watched, like vultures closing in on death. As new ones board, you feel a little better, now that there is someone who is not bothered by your presence, yet. Eventually, it all wears out. The stares stop and you are left to yourself, not because they reached in and found that little spark of compassion, but because they have lost all interest in what does not have life anymore.

I fight off the rising panic as more individuals chime in. I reach for the machine again and insert the three quarters. Slowly, I make my way to the back of the bus, bracing for sudden brakes and turns. I take my seat at the very end of the bus. As I walk by, I hear more glee behind my back. The language makes it impossible to know what fuels their imagination. The unknown makes it even more painful: like taking a slap with your eyes closed. You never know when it's coming, or if it's coming at all.

I can feel the dozen eyes looking on at me curiously. They have nothing much to do on that bus. Everything inside demands attention. It a mixture of distant, impersonal interest, mild amusement and pity. The inconsequential being that is the object of derisive exaggeration is a wondrous sight. The human psyche by its nature enjoys the debasement of another. It satisfies, like no other, the urge to get back at all the mortification. It enjoys watching because it symbolizes a victory of sorts: the soul's payback for what is thrust upon it.

I take what is thrust upon me.

7:33.