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She hadn’t been conscious – or rather, she hadn’t even been aware that consciousness was a thing – until she was purchased. Well, not the moment she was purchased. It was the moment the new owner slithered into her driver’s seat and laid hands upon her wheel and murmured, “Ah yes, this will do nicely.”
That was the moment she woke up from a previously unknown sleep.
She knew she was an automobile, and she knew she was freshly born. Her tires and detailing and seats and windows and every last inch of her was immaculate and ready to be worn down over the course of years, but that’s not what happened.
She didn’t realize the driver was something different from anyone who had worked on her (not that she truly had an accurate memory before he arrived) until some years later when she realized she had aged no more than he had. No paint had chipped, no dings or scratches had stayed put long enough for a professional to tend to them, no air had come out of her tires and, most remarkably, she never needed to be filled with petrol.
She wondered if other vehicles had drivers like hers.
There were times when they were speeding through London and he didn’t have his feet anywhere near her pedals. There were times when his hands weren’t on the wheel and still she found herself turning down one street or another. It was a confusing thing, not to be used in her proper manner, but she trusted her driver…most of the time.
There had been moments when he was distracted and neither his physical eyes nor his otherworldly vision were on the road. She had seen plenty of accidents to know what happens to both vehicle and driver if something should go wrong. No other car on the road seemed able to make decisions independently of their drivers, so she figured she should use this gift of consciousness to keep herself – and her driver, and the many other motorists and pedestrians – safe.
She would swerve out of the way of oncoming traffic if he wasn’t paying attention. She avoided hitting pedestrians hard enough to injure them (although she had to admit that some of them were stupid enough that they deserved the scare of the scrapes she left behind). And when her driver was rushed and had his foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor, she would do the gentlest of swivels around potholes and small animals, making sure she still got to their destination in one piece.
That destination was often a bookshop.
While she had wondered about other drivers, she was especially curious to know about other passengers. For many years, the only being in the car (besides her own sentience, of course) was her driver. But once in a while, there would be a passenger. It was almost always the same one – the bookshop owner: a fellow slightly shorter, a bit rounder, and considerably fluffier than the driver. While her driver slithered into his seat, the passenger would wiggle himself into place, adjusting his overcoat, feeling the leather, admiring the view.
There was something about him so different and yet so familiar. He had a pleasing voice and a kind smile. He often smelled of old books and crepes.
He didn’t always like being a passenger, but she liked him all the same and would try to keep him comfortable if she could wrench a bit of control back from her driver.
As she aged, she learned how her driver and her passenger liked their seats – pre-warmed and cool like the other side of a pillow, respectively. She learned their preferences for interior temperatures, seat firmness, and lumbar comfort. Neither one had said anything about how there might be a sudden yet subtle readjustment after sitting down that neither had made happen themselves. From the look her passenger gave her driver the first time she had softened his seat to the likeness of a specific chair from 18th century France that she had picked up on from his thoughts, she gathered that he assumed her driver had done the adjustment for him. Her driver had only ever stirred once in his seat, the first time she pre-warmed it for him. He had hesitated, glanced around the inside of the car, one hand on the wheel and the other poised on the edge of the seat, feeling the warmth. When no invisible passenger suddenly revealed itself, he made a small “hmm” sound and let a tiny half-smile creep onto his face.
She wasn’t sure when she started reading thoughts and memories, but she was tickled to know that her driver was torn between whether the frequent passenger had done the kindness for him or if it had been her. Either way, he was touched…and perhaps a little bit concerned about whether his car had sentience. That would have made her chuckle if she could.
Changing the pressures and temperatures and tire movements was all well and good, but she found there was something else she really liked to do.
She liked to change the music.
Very early on in her life, whenever her driver would have the radio turned on, there might sometimes be interference from another presence that would start speaking through whoever else happened to be on the air at the time. She heard important leaders, sleazy salesmen, and famous singers all give him strange instructions from time to time. She never liked how those sudden interjections would make her driver feel. He would shift awkwardly, no matter how comfortable she made him. His grip on the wheel would always tighten, and his focus on the road would drift. When he would finally be done with the conversation, he would switch the radio off or change to a different station. Sometimes different music would help his mood (it was always better than when he turned it off completely) but even the toe-tapping rhythms of jazz or big band swing or mop-haired rock ‘n’ roll (all of which her passenger called “bebop”) couldn’t always pull him out of his angst.
Then one day, something changed.
After a particularly difficult and intrusive conversation with one of those strange voices, her driver violently wrenched the tuning knob, landing it in a crackling halfway spot that would definitely keep his mood down, if not make it worse. She hadn’t adjusted the radio before and thought that this might be the right time to try. She shifted the frequency to a station that was about to start playing music. Fast piano, then drums and electric guitar filled the car, followed by a commanding voice that she loved instantly.
Apparently so did her driver.
He started tapping his fingers on the wheel, and she raised the volume. It was like something she had never heard before, something new and exciting. What was this music that had her driver nodding his head despite his furrowed brow? What was it that made him smile again? And what was this place called Rhye?
When the song ended, the DJ announced the musical group, and she made a note to look for it again.
That autumn, after the strange Scotsman had received an envelope of cash from her driver, she heard that there was a new song from the group that had pulled her driver out of a funk months before. She scanned the airwaves until she found a station about to play it. She immediately detoured off whatever bebop her driver was listening to (with a befuddled “What the…?” from him) and turned up the volume to snapping fingers and—
She keeps her Moët et Chandon in her pretty cabinet…
Her driver pulled his hand away from the knob. Oh. That voice again! That Mercury fellow! She felt like listening to him was heaven.
Perhaps (if she were being honest with herself) she loved that voice more than her driver, but she didn’t care. For the first time, she was doing something that she really wanted to do. It wasn’t just an act of protection or care – it was an act filled with delight and pure enjoyment.
So she did it again. And again. And then she realized she could not only change the station but change the tapes in the cassette deck and she did it yet again.
That’s when her driver started to get annoyed. As the years went on and the group grew in popularity, his Handel and Mozart and Velvet Underground tapes became Best of Queen albums because they could and she liked them.
She didn’t want to annoy her driver, but she knew if he would just listen to the music like she did – if he could just recall that moment, years before, when “Seven Seas of Rhye” had eased his pain and then when he didn’t change the station after she had found “Killer Queen” for the first time – then he would understand why she felt the way she did…especially since she didn’t understand it entirely herself.
Perhaps she could use the music to send him messages! That was an excellent idea, she thought. She would play certain songs at certain times, like when a strange voice came through her speakers, she’d play “Another One Bites the Dust” as a little threat to them, to tell her driver she was on his side. Or she’d play “Bicycle Race” if a particularly lovely velocipede (as her passenger called them) went rolling by. And if her driver was in a good mood, she’d make sure “Don’t Stop Me Now” played at least once before he got home.
After a while, she also took care to softly play “You’re My Best Friend” after her passenger had been dropped off somewhere. She had tried to play it when he got in the car one day, but her driver nearly broke the volume knob to turn off the song and she could feel the heat on his face was making her pre-warmed seat just too warm for the moment.
Interesting.
One afternoon she changed Beethoven to Queen, but gently, very subtly at first. The volume was already relatively low, so she didn’t have to worry about being extra discrete. Her passenger wasn’t really paying attention to the music – he was too busy discussing the crepes he had tried at a new restaurant, explaining in intricate detail every flavor and texture he experienced and how they were remarkably similar to ones in Paris but of course nowhere near a substitute. Her driver was in a bit of a daze, barely paying enough attention to the road that she didn’t have to swerve on her own, listening to the passenger’s voice without listening to all the words, noticing the music had changed but not how much…
She increased the volume slightly.
Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine precisely. I will pay the bill, you taste the wine.
Her driver definitely noticed the change, but wasn’t too concerned. Not like when “You’re My Best Friend” had played.
Driving back in style in my saloon will do quite nicely. Just take me back to yours, that will be fine.
Her passenger had just sighed happily as if he had eaten the crepes all over again. He opened his mouth to speak again—
Come on and get it!
She cranked up the volume so much it startled even her.
OOH LOVE! OOH LOVERBOY! WHATCHA DOING TONIGHT? HEY BOY!
Her driver spasmed and seized onto the wheel tighter than ever before. Her passenger leaped in his seat, grappling for anything to hold onto. She was nearly driven into a priest waiting for a bus but she avoided him successfully on her own.
Oops.
That may have been too on the nose and too haphazard at the same time. Her driver turned off the stereo completely, but she swore to herself that she would continue her musical interventions, whatever the cost.
They arrived at the bookshop, and both her passenger and her driver got out to go inside. They were in there for a while, giving her time to think and plot about how she could use not only her Best Of collection, but even more obscure songs with key lyrics that would—
Her driver opened the door and slunk in, peeling away from the curb with a screech. They drove in silence, but she could feel the gears turning in his brain as well as in her engine. She figured he would take her home and go sulk in his posh flat, giving her more time to plan an exquisite playlist, but he was driving aimlessly until they reached the edge of London and continued into the countryside.
“Thing is…” he said quietly, as if he were talking to himself, but she knew that was only for his own sanity.
“The thing is, you just—I can’t—”
He slid his fingers under his dark glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. She made sure they didn’t crash while his eyes were shut.
“I might be mad here, but I think you can hear me. I think you can understand me, somehow, Satan only knows why.”
She wanted to turn the stereo back on to answer, but that didn’t seem like a good idea. Instead, she adjusted the seat to feel like the chair at his favorite table at the Ritz. He settled down a bit.
“Is that your proof? The Ritz?”
The stereo turned on, but just to static. No music, no talking, just the sound of space and a car engine.
“I—I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do here…”
She restarted the song that had startled everyone.
I can dim the lights and sing you songs, full of sad things.
“No, no, you already did that, and much too loudly.”
The song was interrupted with static again, and then:
I’ve been with you such a long time. You’re my sunshine, and I want you to know that my feelings are true, I really love—
“Wait, wait, hang on a second here, are you saying these things to me?”
Static, then:
Bismillah! No!
He barked out an incredulous laugh.
“All right, so what are you trying to say?”
This thing called love, I just can’t handle it. This thing called love, I must get around to it. I ain’t ready! Crazy little thing called love.
Her driver smiled gently. She turned down the volume, but then he waved a hand to turn it back up.
“Nah, this is nice. Let it play.”
And they listened to Queen all the way back to his flat.
She stopped trying to blatantly influence him with her musical selections, but there were still times when it was necessary – or at least aesthetically pleasing. “Bohemian Rhapsody” worked in any occasion, like when that strange infant was sliding around her backseat in that basket. “It’s a Hard Life” was perfect when the child was dropped off at that hospital. “These Are the Days of Our Lives” felt appropriate as her driver and her passenger attempted to find that child eleven years later to avert the end of the world. “Bicycle Race” was delightfully apropos when her driver crashed into a young woman riding one (she loved the bike rack her passenger had manifested for her, but she knew her driver would hate the tartan. Naturally, it was gone as soon as the bike was unloaded.).
She had seen her driver and passenger bicker and fight before, and she had sensed the after-effects of fights that she hadn’t seen, but witnessing and feeling her driver desperately seek out her passenger, attempt a subpar apology, be rejected, claim he wouldn’t think about her passenger at all…that was a lot. Too much, even. She wanted to play “Save Me” as they drove away, but it didn’t feel right. She hoped they were wrong about this apocalypse thing. She hoped she wouldn’t have to burn on a desolate planet or be whisked away to another one.
Her driver went up to his flat allegedly to pack, but soon he came rushing back down with a nervous glee. He was going to the bookshop. Something had happened, and it was of the utmost importance that her passenger be picked up. They could save the world! She knew exactly what to do as her driver kept dialing the phone—
Ooh, you make me live. Whenever this world is cruel to me, I got you to help me forgive. Ooh, you make me live now, honey, oh you make me live.
–but the bookshop was burning. Her passenger’s shop was on fire. He had to know they were there, he had to be safe—
Her driver got out and stalked to the doors. She had no idea if it would work, but she mustered all her strength to reach the gramophone inside—
You know I’ll never be lonely. You’re my only one, and I love the things, I really love the things that you do—
But the record was melting in the heat and she couldn’t sense anything else from inside other than agony.
Her driver emerged, glasses broken, soaked clothing covered in soot. He got inside and sped away, an explosion bursting out of the windows behind them. He said nothing, but she knew.
Find me somebody to love…
She waited outside the pub, desperately worried for her driver. Would he ever be all right again? What about her passenger? What would they do next?
There was an odd sensation of hope that filtered out to her from inside the pub, like bubbles in champagne. And then suddenly relief, gratitude—
In a few minutes, her driver came bounding back out and hit her gas pedal as hard as he could. There were tears of joy in his eyes. He clutched the steering wheel in an almost hug.
“He’s alive.”
The stereo burst on into—
I’m burning through the sky! Two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr. Fahrenheit! I’m traveling at the speed of light! I wanna make a supersonic man out of you!
On they raced until traffic came to a dead halt near the (flaming) M25. Her driver paged through that book he had retrieved from her passenger’s bookshop, when the owner of one of those annoying voices that crackled through the stereo popped into her passenger’s seat and crushed her driver’s glasses.
Oh no.
But her driver didn’t lose his cool. He had gone through so much, had every ounce of hope drained out of him, and then gotten it back in abundance. This black-eyed frog-haired fool couldn’t stop him now.
He placed a Mozart album in the CD deck. She hadn’t listened to classical music in a long while and supposed it would do for the time being and the speech her driver was giving the foul guest. They were picking up speed, headed straight toward the wall of hellfire before them. The rude passenger was frightened; her driver was exhilarated.
She could feel the heat already peeling her paint and melting her tires. Had she any fuel in the tank, it would be boiling. She was frightened, knowing full well that they would likely perish in a few seconds’ time, but she trusted her driver. And as he had just said, if you had to go, then go with style.
They plunged into the fire, and her driver actually changed the music for her.
When I’m holding your wheel, all I hear is your gear…
Oh.
That horrid demon burst into flames and her driver laughed. She shook as the fire ravaged her frame and warped her axels. Then he spoke to her.
“You are my car. I’ve had you from new. You are not—going—to burn!”
But she was already burning.
“Don’t even think of it!”
Okay, then. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t think of the scorch marks forming, the oil bubbling, the leather searing, or the fact that she no longer had functioning tires or functioning anything for that matter.
Save for the stereo. If her driver could imagine that they were both fine and safe to get them to her passenger, then the least she could do was keep the music playing.
It was all an exhausting blur, but they made it into Tadfield and confused a poor fellow and his dog with their fiery state. Her driver had made “We Will Rock You” spill out of the speakers, whether for her, himself, or the situation they were riding into, she didn’t know. What mattered was that they were still driving, still hopeful, still going to save the world.
As they neared the airbase, she could feel a presence. It was far more powerful than her driver and her passenger combined. It was different, it was—
It was that child from eleven years ago.
She was losing what consciousness she had left, but she racked her memory for the first moment that little baby had been in the car. What song had she played?
Ah yes. If you have to go, then go with style.
So you think you can stone me and spit in my eye? So you think you can love me and leave me to die?
Her driver brought them to a screeching halt. She heard her passenger. She felt the child and his friends bicycle on by. She felt the fire consume every last piece of her, all the way down to her consciousness.
And then she exploded.
No, not yet! What if he still needed her? She struggled to stay alert, to pull herself together somehow, but it was no use. She knew her driver had fallen to his knees—she could feel his shock and grief and despair—and then there was nothing.
When she suddenly came to, she was parked outside her driver’s building. She had been burning, blown to smithereens, and now she was whole again. There were no scratches or dents, nor was there a single thread out of place on her upholstery. Everything about her was as perfect as the day she was born.
That child. He had brought her back.
And her driver was walking toward her, a beautiful smile on his face, but there was something different about him. No, it wasn’t her driver. It looked exactly like her driver, but it was her passenger, hailing a taxi to take him away. What was he playing at?
No matter. By that afternoon, her driver and her passenger were both back in their respective bodies, sitting side by side in her front seat, enjoying the ride to the Ritz.
She was grateful to be back and see them again. She wanted to thank the child, but didn’t know how. In a strange way, she felt that he already knew, and that was enough.
Her driver slithered into his seat, a bit too inebriated on champagne to be in charge of the wheel, so she maintained control. Her passenger was equally bubbly, chatting away with enthusiasm about some musical performance he had seen many years before. He was fiddling with the tuning knob on the radio, trying to find something palatable to his anti-bebop tastes, when her driver gently took her passenger’s hand and moved it away from the stereo.
“Let the Bentley pick.”
Her passenger gave him a confused look. Whether it was for the notion of her choosing the music or the fact that their fingers were still intertwined, she couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that her driver was happy and trusting her to find the right music. She scanned their hearts and the airwaves and settled on a station that she really shouldn’t have been able to pick up since it went out of business in 1952, but she picked up the frequency nonetheless.
That certain night, the night we met, there was magic abroad in the air. There were angels dining at the Ritz, and a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.