Daisy Bateman

Foot Soldier

It has come to pass that my car has had a certain degree of misfortune, involving the engine, a non-functioning oil light and a really horrible noise. So it went to live at the dealer’s, where it has stayed for the last month while the issue of whether or not they will honor the warranty in the absence of proof of recent oil changes. (Today’s lesson: Save your receipts.) Which means that I have been driving a rental car in the intervening time, at great expense to the management, but with no end in sight, changes had to be made. All of which is a long way to say that, as of Friday, I will be totally without personal motor transportation.

That’s right: Daisy’s taking the train.

Public transportation and I are not friends. I do not function well with regards to schedules, and I have too many memories of hurrying after busses that have already left, oddly sticky BART seats and one odd moment when my trip home was delayed by a driver who wanted to stop and steal fruit from someone’s bushes. Besides, I’m a Californian. We are defined by our vehicles; they make us what we are. A person without a car might as well be from Oregon.

But the train station is walking distance from my apartment, and they do run a shuttle to and from work at regular intervals. So maybe it won’t be that bad– at least I’ll have a chance to get some reading done. While I take public transportation. Because I don’t have a car.


UPDATE: Mazda has now officially refused to do anything about my car, because they’re jerks like that, so it is on its way to a shop in Berkeley and I am waiting for the ferry.

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