Chris Erskine: Running on empty . . . but running
So I’m driving the lovely and patient older daughter to work. At 7 a.m. she pushes the seat warmer button as her new Honda zooms across L.A., the City of Padded Shoulders.
“Oh, look, I’m low on gas,” she says.
First, we pick up her boss, then we pick up her other boss. They are all headed to Staples Center for some awards show. My daughter does something in public relations, I’m not sure what. But when this show comes along, she gets very busy.
“In the past two nights I’ve gotten, like, seven hours sleep,” she notes, the implication being that I sleep all the time, which is pretty much true.
In Los Feliz, a dashboard light confirms that we are, indeed, low on fuel. This does not perturb my daughter.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get there,” she says.
My daughter says nothing about getting back home, which is my job. I’ve just agreed to drop her off, so she can avoid traffic later. My task is simple, though now fraught with uncertainty. In truth, the uncertainty sort of excites me.
I don’t know how I ended up dropping my daughter and her bosses off at 7 a.m. on a Sunday. I just know that J.D. Salinger may now be dead, but I still feel like Holden Caulfield -- at the mercy of too many yammering adults.
Now, like you, I’ve had mixed luck with adults. Physically, many of them are starting to fade. They tend toward cynicism and worry too much. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a worrier.
My daughter is becoming a worrier too, I can tell from the conversation she is having with her bosses. There is much discussion over some fiasco involving one of the many divas performing that night.
Apparently, my daughter’s job in PR is to keep everyone happy while telling the truth as much as possible. I sent her to college to study that. For four years, she studied that one thing more than anything else. Now she is an expert.
“My phone is completely dead,” one of her bosses says.
“After you drop us off, you can get gas,” my daughter assures me.
I have been her chauffeur for 26 years. By the time she was 3, I’d snapped her into a car seat some 14,000 times. I took her to seventh-grade dances, ski trips, college.
Even after all that, we continue to have a civil relationship, sort of a queen-mum-and-her-driver sort of dynamic. When I screw up, she just raises her pretty chin and snorts. It’s very British.
By the way, my daughter now has a nicer car than I do, which is a sign she is doing well. Or, as with so many young people, she is up to her hoop earrings in consumer debt.
“Ask her if she’s saving money,” I told my wife last week, after I learned the two of them were having lunch. “Stress the importance of saving.”
This would be hilarious if you knew my wife’s track record on saving money. She is superior to me in every category -- spiritually, mentally, even sexually (if that’s possible). Her kisses are like wedding cake.
But she’s never saved a dime in her life, my dear wife. When we first started dating, we used to have to stop by the mall so she could pay off some sweater or blouse she’d purchased on layaway. It should’ve been my first clue. Even then, I knew there is nothing stupider than layaway.
So the thought of my wife lecturing the daughter on saving money is almost farcical, a moment to be cherished. It would be like watching Courteney Cox discussing string theory.
In the car, meanwhile, we are closing in on Staples Center, the gas light blinking. We are headed into a corner of the world -- downtown L.A. -- that has very few gas stations. This is, after all, not a city that drives a lot.
It is a splendid morning on Figueroa Street, sunlight glinting off the bus shelters. South Fig, they call it. Reminds me of Paris, though I have never been to Paris. It’s the ambience I always imagined.
We find some of the streets near Staples are already blocked off, and there are cops everywhere, making sure all is safe when that Lady Gaga shows up. If there were ever a terrorist target, it is probably Lady Gaga.
“Over there,” my daughter says, aiming toward the curb.
We pull over, and my daughter and her bosses spill out, stuffing smart phones into their purses like six-guns.
“Good luck,” I sing.
I know not what land mines await them as they scurry into Staples for their 15-hour day. I only know my dear daughter has definitely become one of us -- a responsible adult.
And the gas gauge is still flashing.
