Automotive Cars | Popular Science

By Suzanne Wells

I’m a 48 year old mother of three and lately and I feel like I’ve just arrived home from a major battle with the cultural technological machine.

THE ART OF GROCERY SHOPPING…
My kids will tell you I can be heard on most Sunday afternoons pining for the good old days when going to the grocery store meant having actual conversations with real people. Nowadays, the shopping experience has been reduced to bar codes and laser guns that rudely shout a series of startling beeps and electronic grunts to let you know you’ve messed up the scanning process. Today the grocery store is a lonely landscape. You’re lucky if you get a “Thank you for shopping with us!” from the receipt.

Even in the old days, grocery shopping was never really my favorite experience anyway. It took me moves to Boston, Atlanta and Ohio to realize it is actually better to smile, look the checkout girl in the eye and politely take your change. I’m a stereotypical New Yorker who tends to view the checkout line like the Amazing Race; where the winner is the one who gets in and out as quickly as possible.

When I first moved to Ohio, I practiced the etiquette of grocery shopping for months before I would even enter the local checkout line. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and rehearse my tone and cadence to get it exactly right in order to ensure a pleasant shopping experience. Years of practice have refined performance. On the rare occasion when I actually encounter a living, breathing human in the store who is willing to have an actual conversation; I still secretly roll my eyes as I hear my New York voice lilt through “Have a nice day!

THE END OF TIME…
The other day, after arriving annoyingly late for several important appointments, I realized it was finally time to turn in my old trusty Timex. I liked her ticking round face and battered, lived-in watchband. She went everywhere with me wrapped happily around my wrist. She joined me daily in my warm, morning showers and we enjoyed cooking breakfast together each morning. We even plunged into the icy waters at our Lake house in Vermont together and dove head first into the summer swimming pools in several states. We washed the dogs, scrubbed the kids and hell, she even took a few surprise dips into overflowing toilets for me.

I spruced up her wardrobe with a new watch band last summer and that seemed to revive her for while, but not for long. I depended on her and she just wasn’t keeping time anymore. I went the distance for her though. Last week, I went to the mall to replace her battery to see if I could get her face to pep up a bit. The jewelry store guy reassuringly slipped the wafer battery into her back and sent us on our way. By the time I got to the intersection in the mall parking lot, I was late for the red light that got me on the highway home. She was tired and I realized I would have to put her down.

When I got home I unclasped her battered buckle and solemnly placed her in the burial ground on my dresser next to the other graves of single earrings, broken bracelets and of piles of gold and silver odds and ends. I’d actually meant to bring her to the crematorium to see if I could get some hard cash to finance my new watch! Instead, I muttered a silent prayer for them all and started off to the local strip mall in search of a replacement. The suburban strip mall is home to the neon- blinking, traffic everywhere, fluorescent lighted, massive parking lot, anything you could want, ELECTRONIC SUPERSTORE! I mourned for her a bit on my way to the superstore monolith as I peeked down at my bare wrist all naked and vulnerable like that. I repeatedly glanced at the time on the dash just, to make sure I wasn’t late for myself again.

SHOPPING FOR A NEW WATCH…
Finally, I arrive at The Sports Authority mega, monolith, anything-you-could-want superstore staring blankly at the watch display. I want a watch with a face. I like the idea of watching the second hand tick around the clock face, tapping each number as it spins around its circle, as though they were old friends slapping high fives as they pass each other in the hall each day.

I like the earth elements in the circular face of these watches. I like the way each cycle is divided into 12′s and how the hours are segmented into neat, equal quarters. The five minute intervals seem like a bunch of nuclear families all joined together in one big, circular bash. I am soothed by the way the numbers relate to each other in a collective way and how the hour hand and the minute hand seem like a father and son. I like the way the whole damn thing fits together in its little circle-world. I feel like I can find my way around there, like I can always get home. Watches with faces sooth me, comfort me and feel familiar. This is the kind of watch I want.

On the other hand, digital watches devoid of familiar round faces, spinning second hands seem lonely without the organized circular landscape of their number families. They feel depleted and give me the creeps. It’s disturbing to gaze at their blinking squared off numbers faces and I am always jarred at the odd way they beep at random times. Even the eerie green glow they give off from their sharply lined faces scares me a bit. When I’m forced to enter a relationship with them, I’ll glance sideways at the little alien on my wrist and wonder if it’s recruiting me into its way of life. I wonder if I am being coerced into his weird alien, digital language. If I wear a digital watch too long, eventually I have visions of having to hire the “Coalition for the Freedom for Digital Watch Wearer’s” who specialize in reprogramming the sorry sacks that were naively taken in by the promise of chronographs and reprogrammable wrist alarms.

Unfortunately, in Sports Authority, my search for acceptable wrist wear is futile. The only selections with faces on them seem to be men’s digital watches, and they are big. After opening several packages and trying on a few, I end up with a snazzy, grey Timex number that is a good fit for my wrist.

TIME TO CHECK OUT…
As I approach the checkout I am relieved to see a young boy who looks like he knows what he’s doing. Nothing satisfies my anal mind more than a check out guy who is efficient, knows the register and his merchandise and gets you on your way. This guy has an added benefit of being young enough to possibly be a digital alien himself and may be of assistance to me later on.

I mentally congratulate myself for my good choice in checkout guys and befriend him little at the register. I act a bit overly friendly but quickly recall my training in Ohio at the bathroom mirror and work hard to replace my hard New York accent with a sing-songy, southern drawl. I coyly batted my lashes to conceal the secret New York eye roll. Digital aliens are very helpful to have on your side in the case of a future battle with your watch, I think.

I ask him to please open the package before I leave. Nothing frustrates my burning, efficiency based mind more than un-openable packages wrapped in impossibly hard plastics with tiny plastic rings that cement the item firmly in its casing. He breaks out the scissors and goes to work. He finally wrestles the item free and I am happy to have my watch.

I place it on my wrist, smile at it and try to like it. The process reminds me of when you meet your best friend’s newborn who is really not that cute, homely even. You smile anyway into the little guys cooing face and pretend he’s not really a wrinkly, old bald man with a big nose and receding chin. You hope you will grow to like him and reassure her that kids always grow into their noses. I complete my purchase, head to the car and admire my new guy on my wrist. I cock my head to see if I can hear cooing from his square lips, then politely shift my gaze so he won’t notice my wince at the sight of his nose.

A NEW BEGINNING…
I settle into the driver’s seat and pull the car door so we will have privacy. I draw in a breath and resign myself to figuring out how this guy ticks. I pull out a hard piece of paper that’s been folded so many times it reminds me of one of those paper football triangles we used to play with in high school. You know, the ones where your hands acted as goal posts and you flicked the triangle across the desk with the long “tall man” finger.

The firm paper form feels solid and familiar in my hand. I proceed to the unfolding process. I am soon sitting behind what looks like a massive New York Times made from rice paper with tiny little instructions printed in 10 different languages! I draw in a deeper breath.

Truly, I just wanted a simple watch, one that could give me the time and offer a familiar tic, tic, tic…father and son circling in their old familiar pattern. I glance down at the electronic numbers on my wrist as they wink their beady little eyes at me, jeering a bit. I feel like I am about to be had.

I flip on the interior of the car and stretch my arms out to expand the accordion- rice-paper-Jumbo-New-York-Times-10 -language instruction sheet. “I just wanted an old fashioned watch” I mumble to my wrist. He’s grinning up at me with his glowing digits. I think I see him smirk. I feel a ping of remorse at my negative thought for a moment and think I should be nicer to my new adoptee. I peer into the instruction sheet for help and try to find the English version. I do find the English words and it seems simple enough: the usual “Getting Started With Your New Timex- Indigo-Laser-Fast Paced-Accurate to the 1/100th of a Second, Watch” section is prominently displayed at the top of the giant rice paper. I peer closer, adjusting my glasses to make out the tiny print and proceed to step one: “Setting the Time”.

AS TIME GOES ON…
We start to get to know each other, me and my adoptee watch, there in the car in the Superstore parking lot under the weird pinkish glow of the street lamps. I move through the instructions, looking for hidden side buttons and alternate between screens. Eventually, I am able to set the current time and even figure out the hidden stop watch feature that might come in handy at bedtime with the kids.

I begin to settle into my new, glowy friend and try to ignore his occasional snicker as I miss some instruction or fumble with some obscure side button. At one point, the chronograph feature gets the best of me and I get stuck in the dreaded advanced mode which is sadistically layered under the other screens.

The guy is now frantically accumulating seconds by the 1/100th of a second! He’s moving at breakneck speed as the scenery in his little watch world whizzes past him, number after endless number. I can hear him panting; beads of sweat dripping off his little digital face, running the race of his life! I try to save him, fingers fumbling with all the side buttons, grabbing the instruction sheet to scan for clues that might set him free.

I try to help him, I really do! I try to spring him from his underground chronograph torture. I try to bring him back up to a better reality, where he can breathe. I look helplessly down at my wrist. I gaze into his wide, blinking number-eyes and take in his exhausted little form. He’s compelled now to frantically add his 1/100ths’s of a second at blinding speed from here to infinity! He looks at me pleadingly, searching my eyes for relief. I understand he wants help of some kind, any kind. He seems to be screaming in his little digital voice: “HELP! For GOD’S SAKE, HELP! Do something! You have the instruction sheet right there in front of you -in 10 different languages!”

TIME TO GET BACK UP
I look back at him; try to get him to see the compassion in my eyes, not wanting to fail him. Finally, after our long gaze, we can’t take it anymore, we both know it; we need reinforcements. I lift him up, grab for the rice paper, swing the driver’s side door open and head for The Sport Authority’s main entrance. I sprint through the parking lot, dodging cars, the accordion instruction sheet trailing me like a sail in the wind. I fly through the big glass doors at the front of the store.

Once in the store, I mentally congratulate myself again for befriending the technologically advanced check-out guy and hurry to the register. I hope he won’t be too disappointed in me as I thrust my little guy’s pulsating, heaving body onto the counter.

TIME FOR REINFORCEMENTS
Once there, I carefully relay our woeful story of hope and eventual imprisonment. With my head hanging, I describe how hard I tried as a new parent, how much hope I had for us and how our story unfolded into our current predicament. I confess my shortcomings and ultimate failure as a new adoptee parent and wonder if he will ever trust me with such a purchase again. I wonder if I will be banned from future purchases – black-listed as irresponsible, technologically inept and unworthy of future adoptions.

We stand at our respective sides of the register, heads together, peering down at the clicking, blinking, exhausted watch-body. Digital eyes look up at us, searching for signs of hope in a “two – heads -are -better – than – one” sort of way. The check out guy is mellow and relaxed. He nods his head warmly as I relay my story, offering soothing “m-m-hm’s” and “Uh-huh’s” in hushed tones woven with compassion and grace. I am relieved; feel like maybe he’s seen this before.

He carefully picks up my little guy and peers deeply into his face, studying it. I watch the way he holds my digital guy – his hands graceful and careful, his breath even and relaxed, his eyes penetrating, knowing. I’m relieved again; I feel we will be OK. I am confident that this guy can help.

I can see my watch adoptee is relieved too as I observe his little watch -band body relax in the checkout guys warm confident fingers. I watch the huddling pair closely and realize that these two are alien brothers. They seem to have some silent-secret -alien -extraterrestrial language that only the two of them understand.

The checkout guy calmly adjusts some buttons on the side and waits patiently for reactions from the square face. There is a beep or two in response, but not random, more synchronized now, void of the desperation that filled his little voice earlier in the car. They continue like this for a while, the two of them navigating through the layers and menus that gently guide my guy up from his hellish, chronograph-race experience.

The checkout guy consults the rice paper from time to time, but seems to know right where to go to make his next move. He calmly zeros right in to the English language portion and lands the next step. Finally he lifts his head and carefully slides the watch to my side of the register counter.

“Here ya’ go.” He offers as he places the sleeping little guy in my palm.

A NEW BEGINNING OF TIME
I slip him on my wrist. He blinks his eyes open and the current time is flicking proudly from his face. He seems to have a little Mona Lisa smile on the edges of his squared off lips. I can see his breath and cadence are comfortingly regular and he seems to sit a little deeper in his Indigo glow bed. He slips nicely onto my wrist and I’m glad I’m getting used to him. I thank the checkout guy and bow my head in reverence to his Technological prowess. I’m humbled by the entire ordeal and silently vow to smile more brightly and with more authenticity for the next technologically advanced checkout guy I meet.

An awkward silence hangs in the air between us. I nervously collect the 8 foot rice paper and make a ridiculous attempt to restore it back into its original finger football, triangle form. It ends up looking like an origami nightmare and I shove it into my purse. I hurry to the door as I catch the image of its crumpled body peeking out from my purse. Its wrinkled head seems to plead for restoration.

TIME FOR RENEWAL
The paper guy is a mangled mess- all legs and hands sticking out at odd angles from his crumpled, battered body. The sting of inadequacy percolates up from somewhere deep inside me. Weirdly, I start thinking about paper Mache casts and how one could mend little broken paper bones. I remember his perfect triangular body and think of ways I could heal him. I wonder if yoga can help with the folding, if only I could find a soft, fluid paper-only yoga class that was gentle and kind enough for a trauma survivor.

On my way to the car I tuck the disorganized jumbled paper a little deeper into my bag so he won’t get cold. As I drive home, I ruminate on my dilemma: can eight-foot rice paper ever really return to its innocent babyhood of finger football games? I wonder: will he retain fond memories of how he fit so snugly into the recessed plastic triangle bed of his brothers watch box or be forever resentful for the way in which we failed him?

TIME TO GO HOME
When I get home I turn on the desktop computer as the familiar whir of his fan and engine rouse him up from his evening nap. The big guy deepens his breath, stretches and yawns and blinks his face awake into a bluish glow. The Google screen appears from behind the curtain. The empty Google search box seems so empty and alone, all white and rectangular. It winks at me, pleading for conversation. His digital arms reach out for a connection or relationship of some kind. I tilt my ear closer into the lonely white rectangle and sure enough I hear his tinny, rectangular voice call out to his little marching letter friends who wait patiently on the keyboard. In alien language, he asks them to line up in an orderly fashion along his belly so he will feel full and purposeful again.

A puff of air blows past my lips as I poise my hands over the keyboard. The letters hold their breaths for the anticipated reunion. I pause for half a second and type “Origami Experts”. The letters dutifully tumble into his white belly. He seems to expand a little with the arrival of his friends. I smile cautiously and secretly roll my eyes.