Rebecca Handler

Karim will arrive in four minutes. My phone tells me he is driving a Tesla with the license plate NEWCAR.

The car is quiet, black, and shiny and there are no plates. As it pulls up, the window lowers, revealing a man with a black moustache and white polo shirt. He smiles and explains how to open the door. I push on the left side of the shiny rectangular metal piece and the right side pops forward.

Resting against the leather seat, I think of the day I once sat in a Batmobile, one of the actual cars from one of the Michael Keaton movies. A family friend collected cars, including a James Bond one. We arrived for Thanksgiving dinner to find the Batmobile in the driveway. Soon after, my dad bought a vintage British taxi with a rear-facing bench backseat.

I am not a car person. In Australia, I drove a used SUV for two years before a young child asked me what kind of car I drove and I realized I had no idea. At this moment, I think it was a Mitsubishi but I would not bet my life on it. Now I drive a Honda because I insisted we buy one. Ten years ago, a Honda saved my life in a head-on collision by releasing its air bags and folding like an accordion. I walked out of that accident with a tiny bruise on my nose. Maybe I am a Honda person.

“Nice car,” I say to Karim, as he speeds toward Dewey Boulevard. He just bought it and tells me it’s a Model 3. “Well it’s really nice,” I say again, checking my phone. I am on my way to meet two friends for dinner. “The ceiling is all glass,” Karim says. Isn’t it though, I want to say, cracking a feminist joke. But I stay quiet and look up to see twinkling stars where I would normally see car. It is exquisite. I ask permission to take a photo to send to my husband. I am in a Tesla Model 3, I text Dave. I do not hear back. He is away with friends for the weekend, kayaking and drinking wine and not caring about what sort of car his wife is sitting in.

Karim presses something on the large touchscreen attached to the dashboard, and tells me he lost $2.7 million in the stock market in 2008. I tell him I’m sorry and that must have been hard. He tells me it was awful, that I have no idea, and then says, “Too bad we’re not going on the highway because I would turn on Self-Driving.”

We talk about the Salesforce tower lighting up like the Eye of Sauron on Halloween and he asks if I’m going out to dinner. I tell him I’m meeting two friends I’ve known since sixth grade. He tells me friends are the most important thing in this life, while driving fifty-two miles per hour down Clipper Street, past red and white signs that say, Drive like your children live here.

Karim pulls over in front of the tapas restaurant and shows me how to open the car door from the inside. I have arrived before my friends so I sit on a bench outside and look up at the sky. I live in a city where an Uber driver owns an electric self-driving robot machine and thousands of people petition for a skyscraper to light up like a Tolkien fairytale. I hear screaming and turn around to see a toddler throwing a tantrum in the middle of the sidewalk.

Movers haul things in and out of trucks, carry bookcases up and down stairs, tear open boxes, and unload books and teacups and ukuleles and tiny ceramic figurines, all while handling the emotions and nitpicky preferences of their clients. I have lived in four countries, and never cease to be impressed by the sheer perseverance and strength of professional movers.

In every moving crew, there is the person who is responsible for taking things apart, and putting things back together. He doesn’t spend as much time in the truck or on the stairs, because he is camped out in the living room or in a bedroom, with a bag of screws, a drill, and zero instructions.

Last Friday, at my house, this person was Antoine, a thin muscular man in a black sleeveless top and a slight limp due to a recent fracture.

I last saw Antoine four years ago, unscrewing table legs and bedposts, preparing to move all of our furniture to Perth. My daughters, then seven and nine, stood at the doorway to their bedroom and watched him take apart their bunk bed. He joked with them about Australia, and told them to keep an eye out for boxing kangaroos.

On Friday, all of our belongings came back from Perth, and with them, Antoine. “It’s you!” I exclaimed, opening the door. I was happy to see this man who was so helpful to us in a time of transition. “I remember this place,” he said, wiping his feet on the welcome mat. “Nice view. Can you see them from here?”

“Who?”

“The Blue Angels.” Antoine was not feeling particularly nostalgic. He rushed over to the living room window and looked out, past the cypress tree. I told him they usually fly over Twin Peaks, so yes, perhaps later that afternoon we would see them.

“He’s obsessed,” said Antoine’s boss, showing the crew around our house. “He wants to fly planes,” said the big guy with the star tattoo on his neck. “Too bad he’s stuck here with us,” said the little guy with the black glasses and backwards baseball cap. They all laughed.

Within the hour, our front patio was filled with boxes marked Artwork, Bedframe 2, Kids Toys. My husband suggested they get the rugs first. Star Tattoo carried an eight-by-ten rug over his shoulder like it was a foam pool noodle. “Where do you want it?”

I showed him downstairs, and he rotated the roll and flopped it on the floor. I stared at his inked neck and thought of The Sneetches. He pulled a razor out of the front pocket of his jeans and sliced the plastic wrapping expertly, as if fileting a fish. Antoine followed us and took a peek. “It’s blue,” he announced and then cocked his head. “Did you hear that?” I reminded him the Blue Angels don’t start flying until the afternoon. Star Tattoo rolled out the rug. “That’s good right there,” I told him, and he headed upstairs to help bring in a couch. I knelt on the rug and leaned down to take a whiff, hoping to smell something, anything, from Australia. Eucalyptus, or bush fire, or maybe grilled sausage. It smelled like a rug. The song “Nothing” from A Chorus Line popped in my head. And I dug right down to the bottom of my soul to see what I had inside. 

The men carried six enormous boxes downstairs, all labeled Bunk Bed. Antoine ran to the foot of the stairs to help and the small guy with the baseball cap said, “Thanks, that was awesome.” Without missing a beat, Antoine snickered, “I’ve heard that before.” The guys groaned like they heard that joke daily. The boss called me ma’am and said he had been unwrapping a tall box upstairs and discovered a spider clinging to the floor lamp, a castaway from Australia. “Scared the shit out of me,” he said. “Give me anything but spiders.”

I watched Antoine put together the bunk bed. I admired the gentle way he handled each wooden slat, applying pressure to each one after it was in place, testing its resilience.

Recently I received an email from an American friend considering a job in Australia. He asked if it’s worth it, the enormous effort of leaving the familiar, the challenge of taking kids out of their comfort zone. I wrote him back in all caps, DO IT, and later I felt that I should have added something about the fact that you’re never completely alone. That there is a world of people out there, holding you up, helping reconstruct your life after you have disassembled it.

I asked Antoine how he landed this particular role with his moving crew. He said he has always loved taking things apart, and especially putting them back together. “Ever since I was a kid,” he said, with screws hanging out of his mouth. “It’s such a sense of satisfaction.” I told him I understood. He looked at the ceiling and said, “Do you hear something?”

My daughter and I sat facing each other on the couch, comparing feet sizes. We played word-at-a-time story. One day, a television tried to eat a banana but could not eat the banana because the world was not working.

On the way to Oakland, I drove past a billboard advertising a memorial dedicated to sex slaves during World War II. Then I passed an ad for a brand of marijuana with the words Best Buds written over two women’s bare butt cheeks.

The day a child brought a gun to school in San Francisco, I could have bought weed for my pet. The man at the pet store said it might help our cat relax when we trim his nails. I did not buy the weed but thought of something that happened many years ago. My husband and I were eating dinner at home and arguing about something stupid. As we yelled at each other, the cat ran outside and threw himself off the deck. We sprinted downstairs and found him stuck in a bush, two stories down. We apologized to each other, and to the cat, who was fine.

A friend from Perth visited last week. She is a fish scientist. This is not the only fact that makes her interesting but it is the thing I think about most often, when I think of her. When I tell my children about all the jobs that we don’t even know about, I think of my friend who used to work at a company that makes clothing tags, and also my Perth friend, a vegetarian, who dissects fish for a living.

I took the fish scientist swimming in the bay. I warned her the water was cold but she has swum in the Atlantic and isn’t easily put off. She walked in and said this is nothing and floated on her back like a starfish. I noticed how pretty she is, and how at home in the water she seems, and there I go again, thinking about how she’s a fish scientist.

The water has been saving me lately, the way it always does. Twice a week I swim with my friend who has a new baby and she tells me what her baby is chewing on now, and how he is moving from two naps to one. I tell her I am looking at high schools for my daughter and neither of us can believe that babies become older. Recently I asked my friend if she secured childcare for the baby. She breathed a sigh of relief and said, “The German doula is back from Burning Man.” I told her that should be the name of a story, a story that makes no sense. She told me to write it.

I am at a sushi bar with my husband. We are watching the man with the black spectacles make the rolls. He lays out a rectangular piece of seaweed on a wooden board and scoops and swipes a thick line of rice in the center. Seven slices of bright pink fish dusted with black specks. He carefully forms a roll and squeezes it with a small bamboo mat.

There is a woman sitting on the other side of my husband. She is alone and orders a beautifully arranged bowl of sashimi. “I think that’s the chef’s special,” my husband whispers before popping a slice of fried sweet potato in his mouth. The woman takes a picture of her bowl. She is beautiful. Long slim fingers, perfect black eyeliner, long black hair and a blue wrap dress made of a very thin material. Excellent posture. She could be a finance director or a flight attendant. After she finishes her dinner, the sushi chef reaches over the counter and hands her a complementary panna cotta in a glass tumbler. She claps with excitement and takes a picture of it. After her dish is cleared, a waiter offers her a bowl of red bean ice cream. This woman’s beauty merits two desserts.

I say to my husband, “I guess I’m not pretty enough.” He laughs and tells me to go use the bathroom while he pays for dinner. We are in a hurry. David Byrne is performing at Bill Graham Civic Auditorium. Earlier I asked my husband if he knew that’s where I graduated high school and he reminded me I’ve told him this many times. I am becoming someone who repeats herself. I keep saying to him, “You’ll never guess who Chelsea Peretti is married to.” 

I return from the bathroom and my husband is grinning. He says, “I guess you are pretty enough,” and points to a bowl in front of us. It is a dessert made up of two red glutinous balls. I hate to describe anything other than testicles as testicles but I cannot think of another comparison. Wrinkly red ping-pong balls? My husband eats one with his chopsticks and I watch his face. “It’s unusual but good,” he says, “Some sort of tomato.”

I am pretty enough for the dessert tomato.

It has been a hard few weeks. My family and I moved back to San Francisco after living in Perth for three and a half years. I can say we are adjusting and I can say it will get better, because both of those things are true. But one hour before we got to the sushi restaurant, I was in bed, crying. This is not something that is happening often, but I offer this fact to illustrate an overall state of mind. This is something only time can fix.

We meet up with friends at the concert and wait in line at the bar. I am thinking about a question my daughter asked me last night. We were both reading on the couch and sipping drinks, vodka soda for me, rooibos tea for her. Our cat jumped up and sat between us. My daughter asked me what book our cat would read, if it could read. We tossed ideas back and forth (love stories, mythology) but never settled on anything and then the timer went off because the rice was ready. All these hours later, I am still thinking about a book for my cat.

The concert is exquisite. David Byrne’s voice is like a friendly uncle’s, and his dance moves are less jerky now with age, sexier. Of course he sings Once In A Lifetime. 

And you may find yourself in another part of the world. And you may ask yourself, well how did I get here?

I begin dancing in a room where, nearly thirty years ago, I graduated from high school. Have I told you that?

My friend procured a box of fireworks from a guy in a church basement. Two free cupcakes with each purchase. The fireworks have pornographic names: Golden Shower, Combustion Chamber, Flashing Fountain. My friend tells me he is going to set them off at the end of his street. “Or maybe at Baker Beach,” his wife calls out from the kitchen, where she is making a cherry-almond cafloutis.

He invites me back that night. “Let’s blow shit up,” he says when he opens the door, a cheeky grin peeking out from behind his bushy beard. The wife is now in on the plan, as are two fearless children. The boy wants to try lighting all the sparklers at once. “Yeah, right,” his mom says, pulling a beanie over his head. The girl holds up one of the fireworks. It is called Unglued and has a picture of a gorilla pounding its chest. “This one looks cool,” she says, flipping her shoulder-length strawberry blond hair.

My friend tells me I will be the getaway driver and loads the fireworks into my trunk. I have a new Honda with no license plate. Perfect, he says, tucking two lighters into the front pocket of his jeans. He fills a bucket with water and holds it between his knees as I back out of the driveway.

I remind myself to drive on the right side of the road. Two days ago, I moved back to San Francisco from Australia. My husband and children are at home sleeping while I am across the park, heading into the Presidio at nightfall, with a trunk full of explosives. Welcome to America.

My dad also used to set off fireworks on the fourth of July. Neighbors gathered in the back alley behind our house and sat on folding chairs, wool blankets on their laps. We kids wrote our names in the air with sparklers and tried unsuccessfully to convince Dad to let us light some of the loot. My favorites were the spinning flowers. Sometimes he’d do three or four at a time and we’d shriek, pretending they were chasing us. Little spastic firebombs.

Tonight, we review our options and decide on a deserted parking lot. Once the arsenal is unloaded, we get started. It is pitch black now and we use a phone as a flashlight. We start small with something called Sparkling Glory. The boy wants to light it but his parents tell him no way and to step back.

I peel back the plastic outer layer to expose the wick and hand it to my friend solemnly. “Let’s do this thing,” I say, in my most Dwayne Johnson voice. He walks ten steps ahead, lights it, places it on the ground and jumps back. His wife keeps her hands on the boy’s shoulders. The girl is jumping in anticipation. We are prepared for a big explosion.

Sparkling Glory is more like Overflowing Milk Container. The three adults cock their heads and stare at the neon box, shooting out the smallest, safest, most delicate gold and silver sparks.

“Cool,” the kids exclaim, without a hint of irony. “That’s amazing!”

Their excitement is contagious, and suddenly we can’t light them fast enough, one after the other. Then two or three at once. Soon the kids are lighting them. The kids feel brave and jittery and all of us are laughing and writing our names in the air with sparklers. It’s a blast. 

Is that a siren?

Two police cars are flying down the hill towards us. “Wait,” we say to the girl who is about to light a hot pink box called Starfire. “It’s the police,” we scream at each other. “The police!” We throw the used fireworks in the bucket and conspicuously position ourselves in front of the remaining pile, a Scooby Doo tactic. My friend pulls his son close and says, “Don’t say a word.”

The cops are not here for us. They have pulled over a car and we watch the episode unfold from behind the trees. “Sir, step out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them,” the policeman instructs through a megaphone. My friend’s boy looks scared. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, realizing I am still holding Combustion Chamber, “It’ll be ok.”

We decide it’s best to not light any fireworks in front of the police, so we gather up our empty boxes, discarded plastic wrap and dirty bucket and drive out of the woods. Back at my friend’s house, we light Golden Shower in his driveway. We were saving this one for last, in honor of our president. It was disappointing. “That’s one small bladder,” my friend says, and hugs me goodbye.

It is close to midnight when I crawl into bed next to my sleeping husband. I hear fireworks in the distance. I think of my friends in Perth and wonder what they are up to on a Thursday afternoon. I smell like a bonfire.