Car Sharing

Car sharing was my wife’s idea. I was travelling over two hundred miles a week to and from work and with petrol prices set to rise again it seemed the sensible thing to do. So I placed an ad in the paper and waited for the replies.

Dave was the first to call. Dave was eighteen years older than me at fifty six but because he was married, I figured, even if we had nothing else to talk about at least we would be able to bitch about our wives.

Dave was taller than he sounded over the phone, and because my car doesn’t have much in the way of leg room when he sat in the passenger seat his knees were practically touching his chin.

I regularly asked Dave if he was comfortable and he would always reply, “Don’t worry about it! I’ve been in a lot worse positions in the front seat of the car.”

As well as being gangly, Dave also suffered from an excessive mucus problem that meant he spent most of the journey with a finger up his nose. I didn’t really mind this, but Dave also had the unfortunate habit of examining his finger afterwards then wiping it on my upholstery.

Aside from the mucus, the first couple of days with Dave were fine. We talked about football and politics, and we even found time to bitch about our wives. Apparently Dave’s wife didn’t understand him, and according to him, they had being living a lie for the past twenty years. Dave didn’t elaborate on this until the third day as we were driving down the motorway on our way home from Manchester; Dave put his hand on my leg and asked if I’d ever been given a blowjob at seventy miles an hour?

Not really picking up the signs I told him that my wife and I were too chicken shit to try something like that because we’d both be too worried about crashing the car.

“It’s not that dangerous, said Dave, running his finger up my thigh, “I’ve tried it plenty of times and the driver hasn’t had an accident yet.”

I decided not to reply; I just gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and put my foot down on the accelerator.

When I dropped Dave at his house, he looked back at me as he climbed out and said, “Same time tomorrow then?” 

I had no intention of letting Dave in my car ever again, but I said, “Yeah, sure, same time tomorrow,” then drove away as quickly as I could.

The second person to call was a thirty three year old Polish woman named Dorota. Dorota told me that eighteen months ago she had been involved in a house fire in which her husband had died and because she had no other family she had moved to the UK in search of a better life.

Dorota also told me that the reason she was looking for a car share was because she had recently started her first job and although catching the train was cheaper, she hated the way the other passengers looked upon her with pity and whispered about her behind her back.

I thought perhaps Dorota had been caught in the fire and was somehow disfigured, but her English was excellent and she seemed pleasant enough, so I took down her address and arranged to pick her up on Monday morning.

Dorota wasn’t disfigured but she was in a wheelchair, and because it took her five minutes to manoeuvre into the passenger seat, and another ten for me to collapse her wheelchair and make room for it in the boot, I was late for work.

During the journey Dorota told me how she had lost the use of her legs in the fire when the ceiling collapsed and damaged her spinal cord, and although she was now paralysed and living in a foreign land she was proud of how well she had adjusted to her new life in England like water to a duck.

I started laughing and told her the correct expression was ‘duck to water’ not, ‘water to a duck’. 

Dorota fell silent and when I asked if anything was wrong she hammered her fists on the dashboard and screamed, “HOW DARE YOU MOCK MY ENGLISH! I AM NEW IN YOUR COUNTRY AND YOU DO NOT KNOW ME. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO MOCK ME THIS WAY!”

I had obviously upset her so I thought so I’d better pull over and give her a chance to calm down, but when I indicated and moved onto the hard shoulder, she shouted, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? FIRST YOU INSULT MY ENGLISH AND NOW YOU WANT TO MAKE ME LATE FOR WORK? JUST DRIVE ME TO FUCKING MANCHESTER.”

Despite my attempts to apologise, Dorota spent the rest of the journey sobbing into her hands and occasionally turning to me and shouting, “ANGIELSKA PIG-FACED DOG!”

Once we arrived at her place of work, Dorota had calmed down somewhat and as I was watching her manoeuvre onto the wheelchair, she said, “I am so, so sorry for my behaviour. What must you think of me?”

I said that considering she had recently lost her husband and the use of her legs, her behaviour was perfectly understandable and that things were bound to get on top of her once in a while.

Dorota thanked me for being so considerate, and as I was getting back into my car, she said, “So, you will pick me up tonight at 6 o clock, yes?”

I had absolutely no intention of letting Dorota in my car ever again, but I said, “Yes, see you at 6 o clock,” then drove to work as quickly as I could. 

The third person to call was Alan. Alan phoned a few days later just as I was leaving for work and said in a strong Liverpool accent, “Listen mate, I’ve just seen your ad in the paper, any chance you could pick me up from the all night supermarket in ten minutes?”

I said, “I’m not a taxi, Alan, but if you’re willing to put towards my petrol I will gladly pick you up.”

I arrived at the supermarket just as the alarm was sounding but I couldn’t see Alan anywhere. I was beginning to think the phone call was a prank when the passenger door opened and a young man climbed in wearing a combat jacket and carrying a large holdall.

“You must be Alan,” I said.

“Yeah I am, He said, pulling on his seat belt and gesturing behind us, “And these guys are me mates.”

I turned around and watched as the rear passenger doors opened and three other men, all wearing combat jackets, and all looking as though they had recently been lured down from the mountains with raw pieces of meat, climbed into the back seat.

Feeling slightly intimidated, I turned back to Alan, and said, “So, whereabouts in Manchester can I drop you off?”

“Change of plan,” he said, reaching into his inside jacket pocket, and pulling out a large bowie knife. “I want you to take us to Liverpool.”

“Fair enough,” I said, and off we went.

Even though he was holding the knife to my throat for most of the journey, Alan seemed a pleasant enough chap all in all. He told me how he and his gang was in the area robbing a series of supermarkets, and how their regular driver had had to pull out of today’s job after being arrested for drink driving the night before. When I asked why they hadn’t just stolen a car instead, Alan pushed the knife harder against my throat, and said, “Because none of us have got a fucking license, that’s why.”

Once we’d reached Liverpool, Alan directed me to the top level of a multi-storey car park and told me to turn off the engine before he and his mates began punching me repeatedly around the head until I lost consciousness.

He never did leave any petrol money.

Once out of hospital, the fourth person to call was my next door neighbour’s daughter Rebecca. Rebecca had just been accepted at university as a mature student and was looking for a lift into Manchester three mornings a week, and although recent events had left me somewhat trepidatious, I decided that since Rebecca was 21 and gorgeous, and had had a crush on me since hitting puberty I was more than happy to help

The first couple of trips with Rebecca were fine. We talked about her degree course, her friends, her parents, and my other recent car sharing experiences. Rebecca told me how she had overheard my wife telling her mother about Dave, and how he had offered to perform a sex act on me while driving down the motorway. I started laughing and told her that it was a pity he didn’t look like her otherwise I would have taken him up on it.

Rebecca just smiled before reaching across and slowly pulling down my zipper.

Unfortunately, as I have a habit of closing my eyes when I reach orgasm my recollections of the accident are sketchy at best. Although according to the police witness statements, my car had apparently drifted across the central reservation at 80 mph before hitting a truck that was travelling in the opposite direction, slicing off not only both my legs, but also Rebecca’s head, which happened to be in my lap at the time. 

Once out of hospital again, the police informed me that they would be charging me with dangerous driving and unlawful killing. But my solicitor was confident that as my wife had recently kicked me out, and I would be spending the rest of my life confined to a wheelchair, it would be very unlikely that the courts would send me to prison.

However, not only had I lost my job, my home and my wife, it was almost certain that I would be facing a heavy fine as well as losing my driving license.

Thinking about it, maybe car sharing wasn’t such a good idea after all.