Dead Man's Honda

During my first year in grad school a good friend and I were going through a tragic and difficult time—similar in kind but distinctly different, of course, in circumstances. I will forever admire the way that she handled it—with plenty of humor, tears and a vibrant resiliency I hope to emulate in my life.

So far I’m failing.

At one point she would dress up in beautiful outfits with her hair done elaborately. She would be tan, glittery—lovely. Fellow students would comment:

“Wow, you look really nice lately.”

She would laugh, “Well, as my life spirals more and more downhill, my outfits get more and more extravagant.”

Once she paused for a second and added:

“Tomorrow I will probably show up to school in a prom dress.”

I handle difficulty and tragedy in a similar, yet converse fashion: As my life spirals more and more downhill, my car gets more and more disgusting.

Tomorrow I might show up on a bike because my car could be cemented to the floor of the garage from the amount of dirt currently coating its exterior. The interior is beginning to look like I live out of it. In fact, I probably could.

There is enough reading in there (as individual pieces of paper splayed out on the floor and seats) to last me the rest of the year. Plenty of water. I’m certain some of the bags of god-only-knows-what contain some sort of sustenance if I were really desperate.

The exterior is going to require a power washer to get the dirt off. The mud and the grime have begun to make a pattern that resembles the wrinkles and layers in sand freshly washed by a tide. It just doesn’t look as good on a Honda as it does on a beach.

Interestingly enough, I would never notice these things in my current state. When my life goes downhill or I find myself in a stage of grief I simply disconnect from segments of the physical world. I don’t notice that my seats are entirely covered in items that probably aren’t necessary in a car—like a pink faux-fur pillow, rolls of paper towel and empty water bottles. I don’t notice that the coat hanger I use for an antennae is rusting to the point of being indistinguishable. My constant sneezing lately is probably because when I close the door a cloud of dust encircles my head and inevitably enters my nasal cavity.

We no longer have any forks, knives or spoons in our apartment and are missing a fair amount of dishes. More than likely they are located somewhere in my vehicle. I can barely reach the pedals because several pairs of shoes are (who knows why) lying on the floor beneath the steering wheel. You shouldn’t have to kick junk out of the way to get into your car. Your house, maybe. Your car—uh, no. Dead man's smell wafts in from the vents more clearly because the rest of the car smells so stale.

I don’t notice all of these things because my mind and heart have trudged underground—following the direction of my circumstances. I can only seem to fit in my head that which is absolutely necessary-- and then more than a few profanities to pad the edges.

Yesterday, however, my co-worker Sam brought me back to reality in regards to Honda.

“I’ve never seen a car quite like that.” He said raising one eyebrow. (I was thiiiiis close to taking it as a compliment.)

“It’s not totally disgusting,” I snapped defensively.

“There’s a LOT of paper in that thing.” He responded. “When are you going to clean that crap out?”

I sighed. That question brought me back to the reality of my car and my momentarily sad circumstances—when AM I going to clean that crap out?

I finally did it. I finally asked Neon Bangs Woman why her bangs are always…well…neon.

Tonight, while washing my hands in the bathroom, I mustered the courage to inquire about the flamboyant hair on the short, portly, but otherwise ordinary woman. I started gingerly.

“Why did you decide to do the ends?” I asked, looking at the tips of her hair on the right side which were bright hot pink to match the bangs. She seemed startled at my question.

“Oh, I’ve always had that,” she said. I think my head twitched with the “WHAT?” that was exploding inside of it. Surely not always, I thought.

"I always did the tips of my hair on this side," she said, flouncing her hair "But no one noticed it so that's why I started doing the bangs."

No one noticed it?? Seriously??

“Ok,” I tried again “Well what made you decide to do your hair like that?” I asked with a smile.

“I’ve always wanted pink hair,” she sighed “and when I turned fifty I decided to do it.” I began to detect a lisp in her speech- something I hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh, interesting,” I added as I dried my hands “But what makes you choose the colors?” In my head I was thinking—before Halloween you had orange hair, and then on Halloween you had hot pink bangs.

“I try to go seasonal.” She said.

“Seasonal?” I asked, thinking of the blue bangs over the summer. Oh yes, blue equals summer. “But the blu…” I started to say but she went on:

“This is for Thanksgiving, “

Yes, Thanksgiving and Hot Pink. Got it.

“And I’ll do red for Christmas and keep that probably through Valentines.”

“Oh wow…that’s…” I started to comment again but now she was on a roll.

“I always wanted a long pink braid…" she said wistfully, "but you know, I had to wait until my daughter was grown up and moved out of the house so I wouldn’t get any remarks from the PTA or from my daughter or anyone else who might be embarrassed or whatever about it”

I nodded with respect. Way to break out, lady, I thought. Or, I thought again, way to have a creative mid-life crisis.

“But it really takes a lot of work. I mean, I have to sit there an EXTRA HOUR to let this stuff sink in…it takes work and patience to get hair like this.” She added, shaking her head.

I smiled. “I can imagine…”

I can imagine I would never spend that amount of time on neon bangs.

But for some reason I liked her more for it. I like that she is so plain in every way-- except for her hair.

I think she ties in very nicely with something I’ve just realized about myself: I am quite preoccupied with the outliers.

And broken things. But the broken things topic will have to wait for another day.

I’m not just interested in the outliers that come up in statistical analyses (why is that one data point so far from the others?) but the outliers in all areas of life. What I mean is that my attention is captivated when something can be simultaneously distinct and obscure. Outliers, in statistics, are usually the data analysts have to toss out to make better sense of the rest. They are distinct from the group, but become obscure when they are frequently discarded for the sake of magnifying the real issues in a population.

Sometimes in life, outliers are tossed aside as well.

I become very preoccupied with outliers like: children who are sex offenders- what does the law say about them? (Hint: not much and what is said, is not said adequately) Conflicts that are being fought but that fail to make headlines because they are in places the general public cares very little about. (Congo, anyone? Ossetia?) Obscure trade tariffs that mostly impact the poor. (Ok, that’s a cheap shot since almost all tariffs generally adversely affect the poor.) I am generally fascinated with authors and churches and places and issues that tend to have lumps and bumps in them and fail to meet the criteria for “sexy” issues or causes or topics. I like things that should stand out for their oddity or urgency but for some reason are ignored because they are so infrequent.

Neon Bangs Woman is very much an outlier in our office. But no one ever seems to notice her—which only makes the situation all the odder.