Iain Reid: I'm Thinking of Ending Things

“ ‘I never like the rain,’ Doug said. It was the first thing he said in the car. Nothing about instruction or how long I’d been practicing. I could tell how shy and almost nervous he was now that we were in the car together. His knee bobbed up and down. ‘Is there somewhere you want me to start?’ I asked. ‘It’s this rain,’ he said, ‘sort of throws things off. I think we’ll have to wait it out.’ Through the use of hand signals alone, Doug directed me to pull into the first lot on our left. It was a coffee shop parking lot. He asked if I wanted anything, a coffee or tea, and I told him I was fine. For a while we just sat there without talking, listening to the rain on the car. The engine was still on to keep the windows from fogging up, and I had the wipers set to a low speed. ‘So how old are you?’ he asked. He thought maybe seventeen or eighteen. I told him sixteen.

“ ‘That’s pretty old,’ was what he said. His nails were like mini surfboards; long, narrow, dirty mini surfboards. His hands were those of an artist, a writer, not a driving instructor.”

“If you need to take a break from the story to swallow or blink or breathe, go ahead,” says Jake. “You’re like Meryl Streep, fully committed to your role.”

“I’ll breathe when I’m done,” I say. “He mentioned again that sixteen wasn’t young, and that age was a strange, inaccurate umpire for maturity. Then he opened the glove box and took out a small book. ‘I want to read you something,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind, since we’re waiting and all.’ He asked if I knew anything about Jung. I said, ‘Not really,’ which wasn’t entirely true.”

“Your driving instructor was a Jungian?”

“Just hold on. It took him a moment to find the place in the book. He cleared his throat and then read this line to me: ‘The meaning of my existence is that life has addressed a question to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question which is addressed to the world, and I must communicate my answer, for otherwise I am dependent upon the world’s answer.’ ”

“Do you have that memorized?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“He gave me the book. I kept it. I still have it somewhere. He was in a giving mood that day. He said experience wasn’t just good for driving but for everything. ‘Experience trumps age,’ he said. ‘We have to find ways to experience because that’s how we learn, that’s how we know.’ ”

“Such a weird lesson.”

“I asked why he liked to teach driving. He said it wasn’t his first choice for a job but that he had to do it for practical reasons. He said he’d grown to appreciate sitting in a car and talking to others. He said he liked puzzles. He said he liked driving and navigating with another person as a metaphor. He reminded me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland , except he was a shy version of the cat.”

“It’s funny,” says Jake.

“What?”

“I was into Jung for a bit there, too. To really know ourselves we have to question ourselves. I always liked that idea. Anyway, sorry. Go on.”

“Right. As we were waiting, he reached into his pocket and fished out two strange-looking candies. ‘You keep that one,’ he said, pointing to one of them. ‘Save it for another rainy day.’ He took the other candy and twisted open the shiny paper. He snapped it between his fingers, breaking it in two. He handed me the larger piece.”

“Did you eat it?” asks Jake. “Wasn’t it weird that this guy was offering you candy? And didn’t it gross you out that he touched it?”

“I’m getting to all that. But yes, it was weird. And yes, I was grossed out. But I ate it.”

“Continue.”

“It didn’t taste like anything. I moved the candy back and forth over my tongue, trying to decide if it was sweet at all. I couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. He told me he got the candies from one of his students. He told me she’d been traveling somewhere in Asia, and that they were one of the most popular candies there. He said his student loved them but he didn’t think they were anything special. He was chewing his candy, crunching it.

“Suddenly, I started to taste it. An unexpected tang, a tartness. It wasn’t bad. I started to like it. He told me, ‘You still don’t know the most interesting part.’ He said, ‘All the wrappers on these candies print a few lines in English on the label. They’ve been directly translated, so they don’t make much sense.’ He took the wrapper back out of his pocket and unfolded it for me.

“I read aloud the words that were printed on the inside. I remember them word for word: ‘ You are the new man. How delicious cannot forget, special taste. Return the turn flavor. ’

“I reread those lines a few times, to myself, then once more aloud. He told me he unwrapped candies every now and then, not to eat, but just because he liked reading the verses, to think about them, trying to understand them. He said he wasn’t a poetry man but these lines were as good as any poem he’d ever read. He said, ‘There are certain things in life, not very many, that are real, confirmed cures for rainy days, for loneliness. Puzzles are like that. We each have to solve our own.’ I’ll never forget him saying that.”

“It’s memorable. I wouldn’t forget it, either.”

“By this point, we’d been in the parking lot for more than twenty minutes, and we still hadn’t done any real driving. He told me that the student who’d given him the candies was unique, that she was hopeless behind the wheel, a terrible driver. He said it didn’t matter what tips he gave or that he repeated all the pointers over and over, she just couldn’t get it. He said he knew from the first lesson that she was never going to pass her driver’s test, that she was the worst driver in the world. Giving her lessons was pointless and borderline dangerous.

“He went on to say that regardless, he really looked forward to those lessons, and that he would have long, long chats with this girl, full-on discussions. He’d tell her about some of the things he’d been reading, and she’d tell him the same. It was a back-and-forth. He said she would sometimes say things that blew him away.”

“Like what?” asks Jake. I can tell that although he’s concentrating on driving, he is listening and alert. He’s into the story, more than I thought he’d be.

My phone rings. I grab it from my purse, which is on the floor near my feet.

“Who’s that?” asks Jake.

I see my own number displayed.

“Oh, it’s just a friend. I don’t need to answer.”

“Good. Keep going with the story.”

Why is he calling again? What does he want? “Right,” I say, putting my phone back in my bag and turning back to the story.

“Okay, so. One day, out of the blue, this student told her driving instructor she was ‘the best kisser in the world.’ She just told him, like she thought he should know. She was so sure of it, and he said she was very convincing.”

Jake readjusts his hands on the wheel, sits up even straighter. I hear my phone beep, indicating a message has been left.

“He told me he knew it seemed weird to talk about this. He may even have apologized, admitting he’d never told anyone else this detail. She swore this talent made her more powerful than money or intelligence or anything else. The fact that she was the best kisser in the world made her the center of the universe, in her words.

“He was looking for me to reply, or to say something. I didn’t know what to say. So I told him what came to mind, that kissing involves two people. You can’t be a singular person and be the best kisser. It’s an action that requires two. ‘So really,’ I said, ‘you would only be the best if the other person was also the best, which is impossible.’ I told him, ‘It’s not like playing the guitar or something, where you’re alone and you know you’re good at it. It’s not a solitary act. There needs to be two best.’