The Wisdom Of OnStar

I drove a new car up from the Deep South over the last few days. Smooth ride. The car has OnStar, my first experience with it. At first I was a little nervous about having some mishap and being forced to use the Big Brother device and winding up sounding like some panicky fool on a commercial. I had no intention of using it for directions, as I am one to disdain technological help for a task that is easy enough the old-fashioned way; in this case, looking at a map. Besides, I've always had the utmost trust in those interstate signs that point you the way to the next big city. But as the hours and miles rolled away, I kept looking at that starred button and wondering. How wise is this thing? I couldn't resist.

The voice was pleasant enough, a woman's that instantly got me trying to picture the person beyond the voice. A sexy librarian, crossworder, dying to let her hair down. She asked me my destination and without hesitation I said, "Self-awareness." "Hmmm," she kind of chuckled, which immediately made me want to change my spoken destination to "your place." "You're one of those, aren't you?" "One of what," I innocently asked, all the while trying to decide whether she was a white or red wine gal, or maybe a no-frills six-packer. "A seeker, not a driver." "You get one of us often," I asked, and suddenly had to jerk the car back to my lane. "About one a week. I can handle it. Are you Catholic?" I thought of saying, "No, Muslim," just to flirt, but then I thought, who knows, maybe I'll see flashing red lights in a minute, so I replied honestly: "Yes." "Who's your favorite saint?" I wasn't expecting that one, so I goofed, not being able to readily recall the patron saint of bloggers, and instead reflexively said, "St. Patrick." She chuckled definitively, I swerved to avoid a semi, and she said, "Easy enough." The next thing I knew a computerized voice, sounding like a guy who hadn't fantasized about anything since the night Reagan was elected in 1980, started giving me directions. Within five minutes I had reached my destination--a tavern with a big Guinness sign out front. Touche, I thought, parked the car and went to wet my whistle.

Two hours later I was back on the road and pushing the button again. "Satisfied?" she began. "Quite." "What now?" "Purpose. I'm trying to find purpose." "You and everybody else," she said. "Bachelor of Arts or Sciences?" Naturally I wanted to scream, "Bachelor of bachelors, where do you live," but I kept my cool. "Arts." "When a movie of a great book you haven't read is coming out, do you read the book first, or go see the movie first and decide whether you want to read the book after?" If I hadn't been distracted by a Dodge driver flipping me off for cutting him off, I would have blurted out, "Get me to the nearest wedding chapel and meet me there with a bathing suit. We're going to Bimini after the ceremony." As it was though, I simply stated, "Read the book first, always." "Got it." Then the neutered voice came on and directed me to a lonely South Carolina intersection, where a scraggly old man stood holding a cardboard sign that said, "Will clean your windshield for literary enlightenment." I power-rolled the window down and disclaimed, "I'm lousy with the French Symbolist poets, otherwise, shoot." "I'm a biblioholic," the man muttered. "Well, not really. I don't buy and hoard books, I just read them. To dangerous degrees. My doctor said the next book I read will kill me. So I tried. Six weeks off the damned things, but it's no use. I can't live like this. Don't want to. I'm going out with a bang, but which bang? That's my dilemma. Ulysses or Gravity's Rainbow?" Now it was my time to hmmm and prod. "You want to die mystified but somehow content, or terrified but laughing your ass off?" "Jesus Christ," the old man shook his head. "That's a tough one." "As are those two books," I replied. "The best ones usually are." "What the hell," he said, "terrified and laughing my ass off sounds like how everyone should go. Gravity's Rainbow, hunh? Thanks." "No problem. Enjoy." "Oh," he said. "I lied, I don't even have a squeegee." I laughed heartily. "You'll love Pynchon."

Wow. The next several hundred miles flew by after that exchange. But as I neared my destination, I kind of got nostalgic for that wise voice, so I hit the button one more time. "The unexamined life deserves no thousand mile drive," she greeted me. "What now?" "Home," I said. "Just help me find my home." The directions took me right to my mother's house. I pushed the button again. "What's your problem," not mean, playful rather. "I don't live here." "You didn't ask for directions to where you live, you said home." "And..." not quite seeing her point. "Robert Frost didn't know Jack. Home is where your mother is, wherever."