My Ride or Die

My Ride or Die

I realized I’d become my Aunt Evelyn about a year after she passed away. It wasn’t some dramatic moment. I was standing in front of a mirror, studying my reflection. The way I pursed my lips felt familiar. The angle of my chin had quietly softened. My eyes carried the same tired kind of amusement I’d come to recognize in her at the end. The resemblance startled me.

My mother's sister, Evelyn, took me in and raised me after my parents died in a car accident. But I wasn’t allowed to call her aunt. She was never someone who fit neatly into traditional roles; she moved through life as if rules were optional.

Much of my childhood was spent in the back seat of her car. Most memorable was her canary-yellow '66 Thunderbird, which she bought when we moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan. No one drove in the city unless they had no choice, but Evelyn treated traffic like background noise. She double-parked to chat with friends or flirt with strangers. Horns blared constantly, but she ignored them.

Always had a cigarette skillfully dangling from her lips as she drove, expertly applying makeup in the rearview mirror while steering with her knee. Evelyn rarely used her blinker, and when she did, it clicked for miles. Seatbelts wrinkled clothes and were deemed unnecessary. Her mechanic called her a “lead-foot.” Insurance companies eventually refused to call her anything at all.

Over the years, there were incidents. Cars pulled from ravines. One from a lake. Numerous calls to towing companies. Her explanation almost always involved a deer, which made no sense in the city. Somehow, she’d walk away unscathed, as if the world bent for her.

Evelyn refused to accept gifts on birthdays and holidays unless it cost nothing. The gifts she gave me were never materialistic either. One was my love of reading. Libraries became our shared sanctuary. I was hypnotized by the smell of pulp and ink mixed with Chanel No. 5 and cigarette smoke.

I was allowed to stay as late as I wanted as long as I kept reading, and I had to finish the book before seeing the movie. She blessed me with a sense of humor I didn’t recognize until many years later, even though we laughed together so often.

At school drop-offs, Evelyn sported cat-eye sunglasses and a fur coat, like she owned the street. My friends thought I was lucky. I wasn’t entirely sure if I was, but I liked being envied. We were as mismatched as a carnival and a waiting room. People gravitated toward Evelyn, while I was content to disappear into the background.

One summer, Evelyn decided Manhattan was making us soft and announced we were going camping.

“People need trees,” she declared.

“We live a block from Central Park.”

“That doesn’t count. Those trees have unions.”

Three hours into the trip, we were hopelessly lost somewhere in the Catskills because Evelyn refused to listen to the map I was studying. She argued that maps tricked people into missing adventures. We spent the afternoon driving down dirt paths that seemed to end at either a swamp or a house with Christmas lights still up and blinking in July. The map ended up on the floor, looking like origami.

When we finally found the campground, the ranger informed us reservations were required. Evelyn smiled. The ranger smiled back. Ten minutes later, we had the best campsite in the park. I don't know what she did to make that happen. I did know Evelyn possessed an uncanny ability to leave people believing her ideas had been theirs all along.

The trip itself was a total disaster. We forgot matches. Evelyn left the cooler on the roof of the car in the driveway, so its whereabouts are unknown. She bought a used tent and realized, when she opened it, that it had holes and was covered in fly eggs. At one point, a raccoon stole her purse while Evelyn stood there arguing with it. I couldn't help but roll on the ground laughing. The hatching cluster flies a day later was probably the lowest point of the trip.

When summer vacation ended and school resumed, classmates shared stories of Disney vacations and beach resorts; I found myself describing the raccoon, the wrong turns, and the night we watched meteor showers through a hole in the tent roof, swatting flies. It was the best vacation I ever had.

Evelyn never cared much about money. She treated it the way most people treat bagpipes: occasionally useful, generally irritating. When temperatures dropped below zero during a weeks-long cold snap, she spent nearly all her savings buying winter coats and blankets for families in our building. The following week she discovered she couldn't afford her own heating bill.

When I pointed out the irony, she shrugged. “We'll wear sweaters and snuggle.”

We spent January bundled beneath blankets, reading library books by flashlight because she was convinced that having no electricity built character. It probably did. But it also built stories.

Everyone knew Evelyn. A simple trip to the grocery store could take hours because she stopped to talk to all she met. She remembered birthdays, children's names, sick relatives, and small details most people overlooked. Most folks lit up when they saw her coming because she made them feel special.

As an adolescent, I often found it embarrassing. As an adult, I realized it was a rare form of generosity.

Evelyn dated the way other people collected refrigerator magnets. Most of her former boyfriends remained inexplicably devoted.

“Why don't you just pick one guy?” I once asked.

She looked horrified. “Would you buy a whole bakery because you like one cookie?”

The older I got, the more I understood her and the more fascinated I became. When I was seventeen, my guidance counselor invited her to discuss college plans.

We sat in a cramped office while the counselor enthusiastically outlined universities and career paths. Evelyn listened politely. When the presentation ended, she asked one question.

“Is she kind?”

The counselor blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Everyone keeps talking about what she should do. I'm asking who will she be?”

The counselor never recovered.

At the time, I thought Evelyn was being ridiculous. Fifty years later, I think she may have been onto something. For all her bravado, she possessed an uncanny ability to appear exactly when life became difficult.

Despite being raised by the most dangerous driver in Manhattan, I somehow lived to see adulthood without learning to drive. Although we had our differences, I adored her. It had always been Evelyn’s journey. I was just along for the ride.

I wanted stability. An education beyond high school. Predictability. A life that stayed within the lines. Evelyn yawned. She insisted real learning happened by living, not in classrooms. For a while, I believed her. Eventually, I married a salesman precisely because he seemed safe. Evelyn called him a bum.

Sadly, we couldn’t have children, and Evelyn had said something cruel. Yet not something I hadn’t already thought myself. When I broke down, she held me for days. Life, she’d said, was like a highway; occasionally we take the wrong exit and get lost, but eventually we find our way back.

When my marriage began falling apart, she knew before I did. She arrived one evening when my husband was away on business, carrying Chinese takeout and a bottle of wine. Neither of us mentioned my marriage. Instead, we watched old movies and argued over whether Cary Grant was handsome or merely confident.

Around midnight, she looked at me and said, “You know, kiddo, some people are only meant to travel with us for part of the trip.”

Later, I realized she wasn't talking about the movie. That was Evelyn's way. Advice rarely arrived directly. She scattered wisdom like breadcrumbs and trusted people to find it when they were ready.

When my husband eventually announced he needed to find himself, Evelyn told him to check his damn driver’s license. I moved in with her the next day. Over time, we became best friends.

When you're raised by someone larger than life, it’s easy to assume your role is to watch, to observe, to follow. For so long, I’d occupied the passenger seat without complaint. Evelyn chose the destination. Evelyn chose the route. Evelyn occasionally ignored the destinations and the route entirely. My job was to hold on. Yet somewhere along the way, while I thought I was merely tagging along, she was teaching me.

Not how to drive. Clearly not that.

She taught me that there was no such thing as strangers, just friends we’ve yet to meet. That books can save lonely children. That getting lost isn't always failure. That laughter survives grief.

Most importantly, she taught me that love isn't measured by stability. It's measured by presence. And nobody was ever more present than Evelyn. Looking back, I spent most of my life believing I was standing in Evelyn's shadow. Only later did I understand I’d been standing in her shelter.

Before she died, she made two requests. One was to be buried in her Thunderbird, claiming it was cheaper and more stylish than a coffin. The second was just as absurd. I promised both, though unsure I’d follow through.

After Evelyn passed away, dozens of traffic tickets were discovered under her Persian rug. The floor looked like the aftermath of a stock market crash. Standing there alone, I wanted to laugh; instead, I wept.

When I turned 70, as per Evelyn’s dying request, I finally applied for a driver’s license.

Every Wednesday evening for 6 weeks, I parked in a spot by the municipal building with a sign that read: "Fine for Parking." When I got back to my car in my last week, an officer confronted me, a few tickets in hand.

“Your inspection sticker is expired, your left taillight is out, and you can’t park here,” he said.

“Why not? It says it’s fine for parking.” I finally understood why Evelyn collected so many tickets over the years.

He smirked. “I believe you misinterpreted the sign. It means - well, never mind. I’ve noticed your car parked here last Wednesday too, but I let that one slide. Can I ask what business you have here in the municipal complex this time of night?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but if you must know, I’m taking a driver’s education course. Tonight was my last class.”

He laughed. He agreed to discard the tickets but only if I informed him when I scheduled my road test, so he could call in sick.

I was issued a driver’s license after three tries. Evelyn would’ve been proud. She never would have said so outright, but she’d have tossed a few pennies on the passenger-side floor mat for safe journeys.

In the end, Evelyn wasn’t buried in her Thunderbird after all; she was cremated instead. I still drive the T-Bird and found the perfect way to honor her life.

Her ashes are housed forever in the Thunderbird’s ashtray. Every time I drive, she’s with me: my ride or die.

We still go everywhere together. Mostly to traffic court.

For that, I make no apologies.