We used to have two cars between the two of us. Getting rid of both was not exactly an intentional move, but it probably would have been the logical choice had we ever faced a discreet decision point. My car — a car my sister and I shared — moved to Brooklyn to live with her when I moved to England for a year, then retired to a junkyard. Madison’s beloved Layla left our custody when we moved into an apartment in Boston and wanted cash more than a car.

The problem with not having a car is that the benefits are abstract and the drawbacks are very tangible. For example, last winter when Boston got buried in a record-breaking 110 inches of snow, we didn’t have a car to dig out. This was a relief, but it was an intangible relief, something that we appreciated in a very abstract way because it was merely an absence of hassle. Similarly, we didn’t have to deal with the nightmare of finding street parking, or moving to avoid a ticket or towing on street-cleaning days. This year, on the other side of the river in Cambridge, the parking is just as terrifying and our carlessness is just as logical. But while I understand that not having a car makes my life easier, I don’t really feel it.

A winter of buried cars and frozen hair.

In contrast, the hassle of not having a car is very apparent, manifesting for us mostly as inconvenient and often complicated machinations to coordinate schedules with my parents and get ourselves to wherever they have an available car. Of course we very much appreciate having often-available cars near enough for pickup — for free, or the cost of a T-ride. But on the night of this sketch, after a long day of work and a hectic week and weekend of travel, facing four more days of work ahead, the last place I wanted to be was on the highway and the on the T returning my dad’s car to his office.

So I did this sketch of Madison sitting on the T and then promptly fell asleep, missing most of what I would have learned from the NPR podcast we were listening to (shoutout to OnPoint podcasts, which do not usually put me to sleep).

Ordinarily on the train I would sketch other passengers, but there were so few people late at night (when we finally got around to returning the car) that doing so would have crossed into awkward territory. So here you have it: Madison’s shoes.

October 5, 2015.