by Bill Murphy
"Stand back," a sharp voice said. I was trying to get to my car. In the dark parking lot, there was nothing near except my car and another car. I was confused. "Protected by Viper," the voice warned. "Stand back."
I didn’t know who Viper was but he seemed to be speaking from the shiny red sports car that was parked next to my beater-from-another-decade. I was but a foot away from my driver's side door, but dared venture no closer.
Since I couldn't leave without further irritating Viper, I decided to go back inside.
"Warning, warning, warning," Viper barked. I was stuck. All I could do was climb up on the hood of my car, which seemed to calm Viper down. For a second I was glad my car couldn't talk, because it would have yelled at me like Viper did, but then I began to wish it could. I needed someone to talk to Viper, since I felt silly talking to a car myself.
Now, if my car could talk, it would certainly have better manners than Viper here, the pretty boy who's accustomed to intimidating others. My car would kindly greet those who got close, glad for the chance to make contact.
"What's up?" my car would say. "How's it going? Good to see you." Even if Viper or some other nasty type of beast-like car spoke meanly, my car would avoid unpleasantness as long as vehicularly possible. On the road, of course, my car would have a bit of an edge. To sleek roadsters that roared away from a stoplight, my car would mutter unflattering comments about wide rear ends, and to speedsters that cut me off on the freeway, my car would say things like "Your father was a Scooter and your mother smelled of gasohol," but until provoked, my car would be a model of decorum.
My car would have to, of course, because it's not the sort of creation that will intimidate anything based on its looks. To survive, it will have to be smarter.
In fact, now that some cars are talking, it seems just a matter of time before all cars will get smarter and start conversing. Computers do it over phone lines. Men do it in male-bonding sessions. How much more unlikely is car talk?
I suppose it's natural the first cars to talk are fancy ones, and the first things they say are threats. That may safely be said to be the way of the world, and while the next generation of talking cars may follow suit, it won't last long.
"Stand back," a four-wheel-drive, three-and-a-half bathroom limo with diamond encrusted tire studs will say to a retro-fitted rusted-out Rabbit parked next to it.
"Stand back yourself, bub," the Rabbit will retort. "What are you going to do, throw wax at me?"
This conversation will get old, and the cars will soon commence to making fun of their drivers. "He can't parallel park to save his life," the limo will be crowing.
"You should see my guy try to make right turns," the Rabbit will laugh. "Hits the curb every time."
"Well, what d'ya know? I always thought your kind naturally handled corners better."
In this way cars will soon get along better than humans ever have. And perhaps because of that, people will start getting along better, because though people can ignore the plight of other people, they take great care of their cars. When cars complain, people listen.
"Buy me. Wax me. Polish me. Fix me," your car says, and you do.
Cars are forced to deal with each other in ways that people aren't. On the city street and on the highway, people are isolated behind the windows and doors of their cars, but autos themselves are side by side. In mall parking lots, the downtrodden '78 Pinto with no rear bumper, a dangling tailpipe, a cracked windshield, one headlight hanging from its socket and four unmatched tires sits next to the new Buick-with-a-swimming pool, and there's no law that keeps that Pinto from parking on your street in broad daylight.
"Hey man," your car will say to the Pinto. "You look tired."
"It's been a long life," the Pinto will say as it starts into a tale of woe.
Your car is not going to be happy about having to park next to an unsightly, unhealthy Pinto, and when your car figures out it's not the Pinto's fault, your car will figure out it's to its own advantage for every car in the lot to be healthy and happy, and that's what it will tell you.
"You can't hide," your car will say one day, with a little bit of sadness. "Or at least I can't. Fix the world."
At least that's what I was thinking, sitting on the hood of my car, waiting for the nasty car beside me to leave me alone, when the driver of Viper approached. He was wearing reflective shades in the dark, had a diamond the size of a golf ball in his ear lobe, and was wearing three pair of expensive running shoes, one pair nestled in the other, which was nestled in the third.
"Hood ornament's as ugly as the car," he said, almost politely, pressing a button that set off some electronic beeps. "Viper's here," the car said. "Hello Steve. Let's get out of here."
As they drove off, I swear I heard Viper laugh.
