Five Dollars in Quarters

I handed five dollars in quarters to the gas attendant, along with my last scraps of dignity. It’s all I had left to put into my almost-empty tank. I know I shouldn’t have gone for a drive today with my kids at home and my to-do list growing by the second, but my body craved it. The way the bass vibrates your feet, numbing your skin. The way the steering wheel hums beneath your palms and the wind blows your hair in every direction but the right one. How the road stretches out like a question you're allowed to chase.

My mother is to blame for this unhealthy addiction of mine. When we were children, she would load my brother and me into the car with our favourite snacks, then follow the pavement until none of us could say, “I think I know where we are”. My brother always picked sour gummies that glued our teeth together. I chose plain chips, which my mother hated because the crunching sound drove her nuts. She never said no, though. She’d just turn up her soft rock and tell us to sing along. We never understood why she insisted on driving, but with the little time we spent with her, we didn’t care to ask.

Sometimes the drives lasted for hours. The streetlights would disappear and the roads would narrow until the city pavement turned to gravel. My brother would fall asleep with his sour gummies stuck to his lips, and I’d listen as my mother silently sang to every song that came on. She always drove with one hand at the very top, tapping her fingers to the beat of the music. Every so often she’d laugh to herself like she had remembered something funny but she never felt like explaining it. Looking back on it now, I think she just needed somewhere to go where nobody expected anything from her.

Our family drives lasted for years, but when I turned sixteen and could finally buy my own luxurious beater car, friends took their place. I was a dumb teenager, longing for an ounce of independence—I’m sure my mother understood that. Most of the time, my car was filled to the brim as we drove around town, blasting obnoxiously loud rap music. But when high school felt like trying to find your way out of a maze with no certain exit, I would melt behind the wheel and drive until I lost phone service. I’d fade into the mystical worlds I built in my head. Whatever was happening, it didn’t matter at that moment. Nothing or no one could reach me.

I used to fantasize about what it would be like to drive off a bridge and plunge into the waters below. Or how it would feel to go max speed into the highway dividers. Sometimes I would get close. Late at night, I would hop on the dead highway and slam my foot down on the gas, holding it until my speedometer couldn’t go up anymore. I used to imagine the exact second before impact. Not the pain or the aftermath, just that final moment when everything becomes unavoidable. I never wanted to die. I just wanted to know what it felt like when life flashes before your eyes. I wanted to know who or what showed up in that final moment of life. Would my brain suddenly remember every person I’ve ever forgotten, every person I’ve loved? Would I fight it, or would I feel calm? I’d grip the wheel hoping for an answer. But nothing ever came.

When I left the house this morning, droplets of rain fell from the roof, and the air smelled of fresh grass and worms. A subtle hint that spring is upon us. Just as I did in high school, I slipped behind the wheel and let the gravel decide my destination. Things have changed—my beater has evolved into an Audi Q5, and my trashy rap has turned into country folk music—yet, I’ll always long for my magical realities.

When you become a parent, people say you stop taking risks. That suddenly you drive slower, hold the railing tighter, quadruple-check the locks before bed. And maybe that’s true for most people. But sometimes the noise of life gets so loud that you need silence more than anything else.

As I followed the winding street, the rain thickened until the road looked like bubbling water. Despite that, I rolled down the windows. Water splashed inside while the wipers tirelessly fought off the storm. For a moment, I thought about turning around, going back home and facing what awaits. Just for a moment.

Then, before I could rethink my decision to continue, the edge appeared, the pavement turning to gravel. The steering wheel twitched in my hands. I tried to tighten my grip, thinking I could correct it like I always had. But the tires had already decided for me. I knew the pavement was slick. I shouldn’t have taken the curves so fast. I should have slowed down when the rain blurred the road. But I couldn’t. The car was now in full control, and I had accepted it.

The seatbelt snapped tight against my chest. My phone slid off the passenger seat and disappeared somewhere near my feet. For a split second the headlights pointed only at the sky, and the windshield held nothing but grey. Then the world flipped. I could hear everything: every crunch, every crack. Metal screeched. Glass shattered. Trees crushed the frame, molding us into something new. Somewhere in the chaos, the song continued playing, the singer's voice soft and steady. And when the car finally came to a halt, the engine was still running. The windshield wipers kept sweeping back and forth across the shattered glass, like they hadn’t noticed anything had happened.

People always say your life flashes before your eyes in moments like this. It doesn’t. It’s nothing like how they portray it in movies. There were no memories or faces of loved ones. No sudden understanding of everything that mattered. Just stillness. I had spent years wondering what your final moments felt like. Now it was here, and it felt like nothing at all. A part of me thought I had changed. Turns out I’m still that seventeen-year-old grasping at strings just to make sense of the world. Eager to know what waits at the end. Well—now I know.