The Drivers

THE DRIVERS

Based on writing prompt

         Some folks like to drive. Some prefer the passenger seat. Me? I like sitting on a bench a good distance away from the road, watching the cars speed by. That way, I don't have to worry where I'm going, how much fuel I have, or if the next car I see is going to run me off the road or not. There's no worry of an accident, no chance of hitting a deer, no speeding tickets. It's safe.
         I sit on park benches and scoff at those who ding their doors on other vehicles while parking. I sit, alone but away from those cars that would hurt me, so I can live to see another day, and another wreck. Wrecks happen every day, but not to me.
         As long as I'm on my bench, I'm away from the chaos that exists on the streets. I watch from afar, and because of this I am in no danger of death. I see no police lights in my mirror, feel not the fires of a five-car pileup, have no remorse for running over a helpless animal just wanting to cross the road. I have no airbags exploding in my face and bruising my cheeks and arms. There's no insurance claims over a petty fender-bender. I don't feel any wind in my hair as I cruise down a highway nor the purr of my engine reverberating through my feet and up into my legs. The thrill of speed does not rush through my body as I push the pedal down. I see no beautiful parkways or canyons or oceanside piers. There is no endless stretch of open highway expanding into an infinity of desert hills and cactus, just the perpendicular view of a dying street full of the same old cars. The sun doesn't rise over the waves of a roaring ocean or set over the towering skyscrapers of a busy skyline.
         The scene does not change and I do not change it. I sit on my safe bench, not out of enjoyment but out of habit. I am aware of an entire world beyond the cracked roads of my street, but I am too afraid to put the car into drive. Perhaps that is the joy of the driver, or even the passenger. The utter uncertainty of whether or not it will be your final drive. If you don't grab onto the steering wheel, how do you expect to go anywhere?
         I'm getting up from the stiff, wooden planks of my bench. I'm walking away from it, leaving it alone on the empty street corner, where someone else can sit for a while. I'm walking to a dust covered car that has been long abandoned in a haze of fear and uncertainty. The door creaks, but still opens; the engine sputters, but still starts. My hands are on the wheel and the engine revs beneath me. The only thing left to ask is the one thing I should have asked all those years while spectating on that bench.

Where do I go from here?