Playing the game

“You’re coming with me to test drive a car tonight,” I tell Carmen over the phone, as I set out on long stretch of road to Morinville.
“Is there even a dealership in town?” she exclaims.
“Yep! Frontier Honda – the best in town... or, the only one in town.” I’ve done my research. Out of necessity, I’m hitting two birds with one stone tonight: squeezing a delayed homework assignment into a much-delayed visit to my newly married friend. Lessening my burden of choosing a dealership, Morinville has conveniently made the choice for me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll show you a good time!” I assure her, laughing.
“Okay, sure,” she says. “And call me if you get lost trying to find the condo.”
Carmen and I met in grade three, over a shared orange at recess. Best friends throughout elementary school, we later went to different junior and high schools, but always stayed in touch. Now, however, our paths diverge in more aspects than school; Carmen married her high-school sweetheart Jean-Marc in August, and they moved to Morinville, a small town almost an hour north of Edmonton.
After I park on Laval Avenue, I arrive to find Carmen elbow-high in cooking. I help her finish the carrot cake, cook a stirfry and wash dishes over conversation about what we’ve been up to. Understandably, she talks about married life, all in positive, but to me, alien terms. I’m searching for glimpses of the old Carmen. Making toilet jokes on the yellow schoolbus. Forcing her little brother to wear a rainbow bikini we’ve shoddily sewn. Peeking at a math test a day early. But in vain. The tone of conversation hardly deviates from serious, and only skims the surface.
I’m amazed at the timing of our food preparation, as Jean-Marc walks in twenty minutes after we finish. At a small table for two, we scarf down the delicious stirfry. I can’t help but notice Carmen and Jean-Marc awkwardly trying to fit into their new roles as husband and wife-- self-conscious interaction influenced by my presence. After all, they have only been married a month and a half.
Heading out to Frontier Honda is a welcome change of scenery for all of us. The dealership is only a few blocks away, in Morinville’s small industrial sector. A beautiful red and white wheat pool precedes the modest dealership, and I’m excited to go on a tour of the town. We walk into the building, unsure of our next step. Anything could happen at this point, I think to myself. Should we all adopt false roles? Carmen and Jean-Marc are definitely capable of this. I think back to when they used to dress to the nines and go to tacky diners, or take each other on drives without disclosing the location to the other; as I know them, they thrive on spontaneity.
Before I can consult them on who we want to pose as, salesman Brian moseys over to us. He asks us if we’re from Morinville.
“We are,” declare the couple, and sink into the background. I lose interest in presenting myself as a successful career woman new to the town.
“What kind of model are you looking at?” asks Brian.
Having all but given up on an improvised act, I look around hesitantly and settle on a two-door Honda Civic. The floppy RCMP moose sitting in the show car's passenger seat knows how I feel.
After making a copy of my driver’s license, Brian hands me the keys and lazily informs me he won’t be joining us for the drive.
“We’re understaffed tonight,” he shrugs.
C’mon, guy, I need a story. Where are your desperate selling tactics and fake pearly whites?
Oh well, I don’t need him, I say to myself, stepping into the driver’s seat. With everyone strapped in, I pull out onto the highway. The acutely angled windshield, designed to make me feel “fast,” battles the speedometer’s in-my-face digital numbers, warning me not to push my luck. Meanwhile, Carmen comments on the Civic’s unsuitability for car seats. I push forward.
The tall prairie grasses on the town’s outskirts soon give way to modest residential areas. We drive a few blocks down to where the couple’s new house is being built. Carmen gushes over the house, the site of her future as nurse, wife and mother. Jean-Marc proudly describes the building process he’s involved in. Dust kicks up in front of us as we leave the Tyvek-wrapped house behind, bumping along the new neighbourhood’s gravel road. I try to empathize with their excitement, but end up feeling more like a distant taxi driver.
Back on Main Street, the paved road doesn’t do much for the car’s not-so-smooth tires and shocks. But the tour continues. We pass by alternating chain-owned stores and local pubs, and back past the wheat pool. The prairie scenery and quiet streets are picturesque, especially framed in the setting sun. But the same sun, blinding my vision, haunts me with a sense of finality. Something about this autumn night makes me uncomfortable in an already rigid seat.
I feel relieved as I relinquish my keys to Brian, regaining a sense of freedom. I give him an ambiguous description of the ride, and he doesn’t seem to care either way. Maybe I had seemed too non-committal to begin with.
“No, no, it’s the credit check,” Jean-Marc explains. “When he took your driver’s license, he went to check information about you to see whether or not you were a worthy client. They have all that stuff on files—you know, whether you have a good job that you could afford a car from.”
He may be right, but I don’t want to believe it. All I want is out of this sickening adults’ game. We walk past the last of 2007’s Honda models to my old Ford Contour. Despite its dent in the back and scratch in the front, and a much less aerodynamic physique than the Civic’s, it has never looked so good.
“So, what are you gonna write about?” asks Carmen. “That was a pretty uneventful ride.”
“I’m going to write about you two, of course,” I smile, knowing I inevitably will. They laugh.
I say goodbye to Carmen and Jean-Marc with a mixture of relief and sadness. Where have their old selves gone? Or have I changed, unable to relate to Carmen anymore? Why can’t I simply be happy for her and leave it at that?
We have both changed, I conclude, as I begin the drive home. Our paths have diverged; so what? Determined to avoid a sinking feeling, I force Highway 2 into becoming the site for a redemptory joy ride. The sun has disappeared. I cruise along with my highbeams on. Edmonton approaches fast.
“Have you forsaken your husband dear, to go with the Gypsy Davy?” sings Woody Guthrie, filling my car with his plaintive voice.
I laugh while I weave through cars and reflective lights.
Yes. I’m still following the Gypsy Davy.