There I am purring down the freeway, in a reasonable mood for once, when my car suddenly takes over, carefully merges right, slows, keeps a safe distance from the slowing car in front of me as we both pull over onto the shoulder. It’s like being double-stopped for speeding by an invisible show-off cop.

I tilt the mirror to finger comb my hair and check there are no remnants of my lunch, spinach lasagna, lodged in my winning smile. She too is fussing in her mirror.

This is the first time I come second. Shouldn’t the lead car take the lead? I guess not. After waiting a minute I get out and approach. It doesn’t matter which side of the passenger window you are on it’s the same plausible deniability routine. It’s the cars that are looking for some action, not us drivers. We’re just along for the ride. In fact, it’s all an innocent mistake. But…as long as we’re talking…

This lady driver has lustrous brown hair with red in it, well-defined jaw line and cheekbones and a gummy smile. “I think this is some kind of mistake,” she says.

“It usually is.”

“How are you tagging me? I’m not on any sites.”

Notice the subtle change, me not my car? “Really? I thought it was you tagging me—your car, that is.” I gaze back at my car to remind her that she’s leading this parade.

“I’m serious.”

“Look, our cars had a conversation…about us. Who knows what they’re basing it on. All I know is that when my car says low oil, engine trouble or pretty lady I act.”

At this point I’m fifty/fifty on continuing. She’s cute but with hints of whininess and self-importance. She seems genuine about not being on any sites. I have a theory that needs testing and that tilts the balance toward persisting.

“I have a few ideas. Do you care to off ramp with me—just to talk?”

Bingo. She cares. But only if we talk cop style.

Scene two. Our cars have chosen a strip mall. Nails. Oriental Food. A liquor store and a tax accountant. Her car parks across three vertical slots. Standard practice, the lady gets the quick exit spot. Now my car slots inside of hers so our driver’s windows match up, cop style. Except her car hasn’t given me enough room for a frontal approach. My car will have to back around, in and most of the way through to get to her window.

What? My car doesn’t think the maneuver is advisable. Why can’t it talk to her car and get it to move back so I can park first? Nope. Can’t be done. Brick wall. I try to signal her to pull forward on manual but she’s lost in her phone. Probably checking out all those sites she’s not on.

I attempt the not advisable, back in and around, executing a seven point turn to ratchet from vertical to horizontal without hitting the camper van that’s hemming me in. Then the tight squeeze including a brush with an overgrown oleander bush. Finally, having backed most of the length of her car, our windows sync.

Docking maneuver completed, windows down, I say, “It seems that our cars have stopped talking to each other.”

She looks up from her phone with an “oh it’s you” look.

A flash of anger. How did she manage to butt out of this vehicular pas de deux. 

She must have read my heated expression and says, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m a tad nervous. It’s my first time… at a strip mall.” Note the  devilish pause; the poker face delivery.

Best to keep this thing moving, so I cut to my idea. “Don’t you hate automatic upgrades?”

“They’re better than automatic downgrades which is what I seem to get.” Give her credit, she avoids looking at me as she says this.

I plow on. “You get Nutflix right?” I don’t wait for an answer; everyone gets Nutflix. “There’s a new upgrade. You have to go into “my accounts” and blah blah blah and deactivate ‘share my likes’.”

“You’re saying we’re driving down the highway and somehow our cars know we like the same movies?”

“That’s my guess. I’m not on any dating sites either. My wife would kill me.” I give her am exaggerated jack o’ lantern smile to say, “just kidding”.

“Ha ha. How come you know so much about these secret settings?”

“They’re hardly secret.”

Just then both our cars give off warning beeps and start moving. A few moments later a beer truck casts its shadow over us. We wait while the beer truck works out a parking solution with our two cars. These days you drive down the street, your car brakes sharply and then a boy on a bike veers out at you from nowhere. The reckless boy’s bike and his phone talk to your car well ahead of any trouble. Cars talk to other cars. Even beer trucks get in on the action. In fact your car is a plugged-in chatterbox while you sit like Buddha on buttery leather.

The solution is to abandon cop style. I am invited into her Accord.

“Say,” she says, “wasn’t there a beer truck in Skyfall. Heineken?“

“You might be thinking of the Perrier truck in Goldeneye. Bond drinks Heineken in Skyfall, though. How’s that for shameless product placement?”

If we were filming this sequence the lady’s voice would fade out over the next line. “You pay twenty bucks, sit through a ton of ads and then there’s ads in the movie.”

The above vignette is based on an article in the NY Times (apologies if you are blocked by a paywall) about a system called C-V2X — cellular vehicle-to-everything technology. Vehicle-to-everything says it all.