One week. $31,750. The price tag of my dignity, apparently.
How hard could it be?
Just don’t touch anything.
Don’t break anything.
Don’t breathe wrong.
Don’t exist incorrectly.
Just be perfect according to the undefined, constantly shifting standards of a man who makes Machiavelli look like a life coach.
I got this.
Here goes nothing.
I press down on the accelerator?—
“Cheese and Rice on a pogo stick!” The car lunges forward like it’s been cattle-prodded, sending me slamming back intoItalian leather. Trash cans along the alley wall rattle like they’re auditioning for a percussion ensemble.
“SORRY. Holy shit! SORRY.” I’m apologizing to inanimate objects now. Fantastic. The sensors are screaming at me in what I assume is car for “you absolute amateur.”
This is fine. Everything is fine. I just need to back up. Simple. Basic. Driving 101.
I locate the “R” button on the console and stab at it with the urgency of someone trying to deactivate a bomb with three seconds left on the timer. It clicks with an air of superiority, like it’s judging my life choices. Which, fair.
The car rolls back a few inches, and suddenly every sensor in this technological nightmare is having a collective panic attack. Beeps, chimes, and what sounds like Italian profanity blast from the speakers.
A screen flickers to life, showing what I assume is supposed to be the view behind me, except it’s warped like I’m looking through a fishbowl filled with vodka. Everything is distorted, bloated, and vaguely threatening.
Great. High-def footage of my impending death. At least the obituary photos will be crisp.
The dashboard is now essentially a Christmas tree of warning lights. Red, yellow, flashing, steady—it’s like Times Square had a baby with a nuclear launch sequence. The parking sensors are screaming at a pitch that could shatter diamonds.
“Stop yelling at me, car! I’m doing my best!” My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, and I’m sweating through my tank top. “We’re all having a bad day here!”
I finally manage to maneuver this mechanical nightmare through the parking lot, feeling like I’ve just successfully performed open-heart surgery while blindfolded. My hands are trembling slightly against the leather steering wheel, slick withnervous sweat. Every inch forward feels like a victory against physics and common sense.
The car—this gleaming, snarling beast of engineered perfection—responds to my tentative touches with the temperamental attitude of a thoroughbred horse that’s been saddled by a complete novice.
The sensors continue their anxious symphony as I narrowly avoid scraping against a concrete planter. A passing pedestrian stops to stare, mouth slightly agape at the spectacle of me—disheveled, wild-eyed, clearly out of my element—piloting this mechanical masterpiece with all the grace of a toddler trying to thread a needle.
I can practically feel Giovanni’s presence hovering over my shoulder, cataloging each jerky movement and hesitation for his little demerit notebook.
When I finally clear the last obstacle and merge onto the actual street, I breathe, my lungs burning with relief. The dashboard gradually stops its light show of warnings, apparently deciding I’m no longer an immediate threat to its wellbeing or resale value.
And there she is. Marge Whitaker. Standing outside Sweet Dreams Bakery like some disappointed fairy tale witch, watching me with those beady little eyes that probably turn children into gingerbread. My former boss. The woman who fired me on Saturday for a wedding cake disaster that wasn’t even my fault.
Something petty and warm blooms in my chest.
Look at me now, Marge. Driving a Lamborghini while you’re still dusting powdered sugar off your apron. The universe has a sense of humor after all.
I’m going to finish this week.
I’m going to collect my $31,750.
And then I’m going to ghost this entire miserable town. Maybe Florida. Or California. Somewhere people don’t know my name or my failures or?—