I start the engine and try to back out. But I get stuck. Something is holding the car in place. I can’t move. I push harder on the gas pedal and hear a ghastly screeching sound of metal scraping something hard. I hit the brakes and look to my left. Somehow, I’m partially wedged under a small truck parked next to me. My wheel or some part of my car seems to be stuck under the truck but I am not sure how or why it got there.
I try to drive forward—the screeching intensifies. I put my car in reverse—the same thing happens. In desperation, I press really hard on the gas pedal, ignoring the terrifying noise of smashing and screeching and breaking objects, and finally free myself from the trap. As I pull away, I see that my car’s left side is dented. But I don’t check the damage to the truck. I don’t care. I simply drive away.
I head toward the exit. It’s clearly visible from a distance so I drive in that direction. Although the exit driveway is narrow and slightly curved, it’s never given me any trouble. I’ve passed easily through it hundreds and hundreds of times. When I reach it today, though, it seems much narrower, almost unrecognizable. I drive slowly, trying to squeeze through the constricted exit. But I cannot fit.
What are they doing with these driveways? Changing everything, constant construction on this stupid campus! Why did they alter the exit?
I hear loud scratching and a bang as I run over a high curb.
The parking attendant runs out of his booth. “Lady, what are you doing?” he shouts.
“What do you think?” I mutter, increasingly irritated. “I’m just trying to get out of here, to leave this ridiculous garage and go home!”
Standing in front of my car, he points with his hands, directing my moves so I can free my wheels, as one of them is stuck high up on the curb. Finally, I pull loose. I drive off angrily.
I have the uneasy feeling that the world is plotting against me. As if to confirm that, as I head home, the sky opens and it begins to pour.
At this time of year in northern Virginia, the rains are often intense, almost tropical in their suddenness. Visibility during such weather is minimal; the world hides behind a curtain of water that is gray, foggy, and shapeless. Although the sun won’t set for another several hours, it’s dark and I see nothing but rain. I can’t even make out the outline of the hood of my car. The houses, the highway railing, even the other cars, all seem to wash off in the rain. I’m driving blind.
Home is somewhere out there, a hidden oasis in the woods facing a quiet street. It’s my cradle of safety. I need to get there quickly. Then I’ll be fine. But it’s nearly twenty miles away. I turn onto a busy four-lane road. Cars whiz by me at unusually high speeds.
Where are they going so dangerously fast?
I creep along to the correct exit and merge onto the main highway, the Beltway that snakes through the suburbs of Maryland and Virginia. From there it should be simple. I’ve taken this route countless times. But today it looks different.
Why can’t I figure out where I am? Is it the rain that makes it so difficult?
I need the exit onto Little River Turnpike West. But I don’t see it.
Have I already taken the exit? Why can’t I remember?
Am I lost? I’m not sure. I don’t really have any idea where I am. But I do see that I’m no longer on the highway. I keep driving. Instead of the familiar streets and houses of my neighborhood, I’m going past a huge shopping mall. Gray buildings, expansive parking lots, entrances to dark garages.
What am I doing here? How did I get into this gloomy shopping mall, someplace I’ve never seen before?
I feel as if I’ve skipped through time or leaped into another reality. It’s odd. But I’m not worried much, and I’m not afraid. It’s like I’m a character in a movie mysteriously transported in a rainstorm to a place I didn’t intend to go. Nothing is what it seems. Nothing works as it should.
I want to get home but don’t know what to do. I stop by the side of the road, then pull into a vast parking lot. I fumble with my cell phone. I know that I have an app that will guide me home but I cannot recall which one it is. I stare at the many icons on the screen but none of them are familiar. I randomly press the button on this one and that, but nothing’s helping. After a long while I see the Waze icon and press it, and when it speaks its directions, I again begin to drive.
Eventually I pass by a large construction site with a building that extends along an entire block. It looks shiny and new and seems like it’s almost complete. A huge sign announces that a Giant supermarket is soon to open.
A Giant! How wonderful! I wish they would build a new Giant near us!
Oh! Wait, look—it is in our neighborhood! I’m back in our neigh-borhood! This Giant will be ours!
My happiness quickly deflates. Yes, this will be our new neighborhood grocery store. But will it be mine? Will I live to see it open?
Now I’m in my driveway. I have no idea how I got here.
It’s becoming more and more difficult for my brain to function normally. Increasingly, I find it a struggle to carry out ordered, sequential movements. I can no longer execute simple tasks that I’ve done many times before or organize them in my mind in a methodical fashion. By itself, each step is very familiar, but combined together, they are as challenging as the complex experiments I used to carry out in my
