The Tesla

I need a ride to the New Beverly Cinema for a date but make the rookie mistake of waiting too long to call an Uber. The fare has risen to $23 and causes me an intense bout of bourgeois distress, but I manage to regain my composure when a cherry Tesla Model S shows up in front of my house. This would be my first time riding in one and I’m interested in learning a little bit about the car. Or so I think.

After asking one or two questions about the Tesla, I realize there’s going to be an emotional tax levied during this trip. By some twist of consumerist alchemy, my driver’s identity is somehow conjoined with his car’s, and he begins relentlessly relaying information about the vehicle to me despite my continued silence.

My driver recites the litany of reactions he’s received about his Tesla, how he’s financing his Tesla, how the door handles are the Model S’ achilles heel, and that he’s had to replace them eleven times. He insists on giving me a full demo of the dashboard interface, showing me how the screen syncs up with the car’s turn signals so the display flashes when you signal in real life (holy shit). The Tesla was his world, and, as long as there was traffic on the 405, I was living in it.

Our “conversation” reminds me of millennials that smoke cigarettes together and only talk about quitting. There’s no need to explain yourself, you’re allowed to enjoy your cigarette. There’s no need to tell me about your zero-emission, battery-powered gift from God to enjoy driving it. The last thing I want to talk about in a Tesla is the Tesla. How naïve I had been before.

Maybe this whole ordeal is my fault for asking in the first place. Maybe I’m being bitter, criticizing a boy and his toy. At least I arrived at the theater in a nice ride with a slightly smaller carbon footprint.