Fear and Procrastination

and cars and depression and anhedonia

Fae riding along in the automobile, Photo Puma Perl

Fear and Procrastination

and cars and depression

Around 35 years ago, at a 12-step convention at the Concord Hotel, or maybe it was the Stevensville, I heard a guy from California speak at the

main meeting. It was a period when we idealized people with decades of clean time as spiritual giants since most of us in NYC were still counting days or months. If you had a year or a couple, you were like a god or goddess of recovery. Anyway, this guy’s name was Pepe, and I remember one thing he said—that all our feelings and actions were based on fear or love. (Similar to Freud, who said happiness was based on work and love.) It may not sound as profound as it did back then. Pepe died of cancer some years later. I’d bet that there are still a few of his tapes floating around. I don’t go to meetings anymore and from my observation some of the main speakers who are flown around the world and put up at hotels are a new brand of recovery rock stars, but that’s none of my concern and it’s possible my perceptions are based on social media posts. Pepe had a nice vibe and seemed like a good and humble human being. Our tendency to put people on pedestals and get upset when idealizations crumbled was not his fault or responsibility.

But back to fear and getting easily overwhelmed and procrastinating. I would bet that procrastination is often caused by fear, even simple things. I hate getting my car inspected so I put it off and in the meanwhile my battery dies during the snow deluge, and I get it swapped out since it’s under warranty and then another snowstorm comes our way and when I finally get to the shop it fails the inspection because I haven’t driven it enough for it to reset. Because I procrastinate about driving the damn car. My very nice mechanic, Jerome, who retired, always scolded me for not driving enough and even put a cut-off switch on the battery so it wouldn’t die when the car was idle. He once drove my car all the way to his house in Long Island and kept it overnight so the battery would reset because when he told me to take it for a long drive I thought Coney Island, as opposed to Long Island, was long enough. Some guys who worked for him, who are also very nice, added mechanical work to the body shop he’d owned, but they all live around here or in Brooklyn, so nobody is taking my car home to reset the battery. I must take a long drive by myself today which is why I am up at 5AM writing about fear and procrastination.

Let me make one thing clear. I used to like to drive. I’ve driven by myself up and down the East Coast and to the Midwest with the mistaken idea that it mattered that I had new poetry collections in print. My friend M takes off every October and drives her van around the country, camping out by herself, visiting friends, taking back roads. She’s like Harry without the Tonto. I’ve never been that intrepid in that way. And she would never get on a stage to perform, so I guess we all do what works for us.

But why, you might ask, do I even have a car? Especially since I live in lower Manhattan. Thing is, I live in one of those parts of Manhattan that nobody knows about. I live in a secret Manhattan, right above South Street, a half mile from the subway, a quarter of an uphill mile from the bus; a car makes my recent post-surgery and pre-another surgery more manageable in terms of errands, food shopping, going to the library, etc. If my life sounds boring, it’s because it often is. I also keep my car for the dog. We need other parks and dog runs to visit in addition to the little box of a run down the block, and especially during the years when the East River Park was under construction. Tompkins Square Park is not walkable for me right now. Owning a car in Manhattan means if you complain about the car washes and gas stations closing in your area you’ll be told that you don’t need a car. Because you’re in Manhattan. But you’re not in my Manhattan and when people blithely say “just walk more or ride a bicycle” they usually don’t know the capabilities of others. (Also, I hate getting gas. That’s another story. And truth be told, the dog doesn’t care where we go as long as there’s a ball she can chase.)

I have procrastinated about writing this essay because what I really meant to write about is the shame of depression and anhedonia, which used to be called dysthymia. Growing up in the Gravesend section of Brooklyn, nobody liked an unhappy kid. There was no knowledge of childhood depression, and it would have been scoffed at if brought up anyway. Kids were just supposed to do their job and be kids, and if you seemed unhappy it meant you were sullen, or pouting, or sulking. Nobody ever thought about why and I’m not implying that there were any dark secrets in my home. Except for everything about my home, because my father suffered from bipolarity and had long depressive periods. This translated to his being a bad husband and father, although he did put on his bowtie and go to work every day, no matter what. The lesson learned was depression equals weakness and lack of character.

OK I HAD AND HAVE A LOT MORE TO SAY ON THE SUBJECT BUT I PAUSED TO TAKE MY CAR FOR OUR LITTLE ROAD TRIP AND HAD A BLOWOUT AS SOON AS I GOT ONTO THE FDR!

The car spun out of control for a few seconds but I was able to correct it and slowly crawl to the shop which is nearby. Nobody hurt, no damage, no cars in the other lanes at that moment. Naturally, the cars coming off the ramp honked furiously. I had my nerve still being alive. I was lucky that it happened close to home and at a low speed instead of driving 50 or 60 on the Deagen or I95 or wherever I had decided to go.

There will be no further discussion because men, including and especially my son, will ask a million questions while trying to determine who to blame and the different ways they can tell you what you should have done. Women will mostly say OMG are you all right? but may also seek out details and offer theories. It happened, it’s being taken care of, se acabó! Maybe if one of these inquisitive men were my partner (not my son haha) they would have taken care of the car in the first place, but the truth is that my last several boyfriends didn’t even drive and knew nothing about cars. One was even deathly afraid of highways and tried to convince people to take side roads no matter how long the trip, another two gave it a go when they were younger and immediately crashed. The best of the lot escorted me to the pound the one time my car was towed and waited patiently for it to be retrieved.

This seems less of an essay than a conversation with myself. So, I might as well end with poems about a car. Sorry, Honda Civic, but I loved the Maxima more. I’ll get back to depression and anhedonia at a different date unless the idea of it makes everyone cancel his or her subscription.

TRUSTING THE BLACK MAXIMA

My trusty black Maxima is showing its age.

Dents. Scrapes. Bruises. I treat it as I do myself.

Keep the motor running. Repair internal damage.

Not much time or money left for cosmetic work.

It hurts to admit it. I don’t love this car as I did the others,

maybe because it was raised and registered in Long Island

rather than Coney Island. It took fifteen minutes to complete

the paperwork. Everyone was nice. The alternate planet of DMV’s.

Nothing takes fifteen minutes. Everything is divided into

half hour segments—parking the car, getting coffee on

the way, this line, that line, back up to Surf or down

to Neptune. The only viable fact my mother taught me—

Everything takes a half hour. And the punishing God thing.

I never loved this car as I did my ’78 Nova or even my

1980 Oldsmobile Delta 88, which was big enough to fall

asleep in. I have never slept in the Maxima. I have not

conducted a torrid affair in it for over two years, and I’ve

never found love the way I did in my 1990 Mercury Cougar.

It was the black leather bucket seats that did it. Gray velour

is decidedly unromantic and it’s hard to get stains out.

I am not in love with this car, yet I feel guilty for cheating

as I gaze longingly at Mustangs and Triumphs. I’ve never

named a car in my life but I did learn to drive on a car

with a name. “The Blue Baby,” a 1964 Ford Falcon, manual

shift. With your hand. Didn’t even have a stick.

Despite my ambivalence, I have travelled greater distances

alone with my Maxima than with any other vehicle I’ve owned.

To a reading in Toledo, Ohio, where they forgot the biggest

event of the year was taking place on the other side of town.

Down to Cleveland, and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and

a more successful night; I sold thirty-five books and invited

a young garage band to play behind me. First time that ever

happened to them. Up to Boston with bad directions, down

to Rhode Island with good ones, lost in New Jersey, drenched

in the Bronx. Rear-ended an SUV while stuck in traffic on the Gowanus,

no damage except a bent license plate but naturally the other driver

appeared several weeks later with a neck brace and a claim of

an inability to have sex with her husband due to trauma.

My trusty black Maxima has paid the rent for various

mechanics, though has not put their kids through

graduate school. That honor is reserved for my dentists.

Wish it were the other way round. I remember all

of my mechanics’ names and none of the dentists’.

All winter, it has sat outside on sheets of ice, patiently

waiting. I start it up, clean it off, and walk away, just

as I’ve done with most of the men that I’ve known,

and a good percentage of them were dressed in black,

although none were quite as trustworthy as my Maxima.

Honda shopping for records, photo by Puma Perl