With a flash of light, the car twisted back to its original state. It rolled forward gently, then stopped suddenly with a metallic thud and hit the dumpster. I tried to back the battered thing into reverse so I could pull it into the garage.
It doesn’t move when I pedal. Confused, I got out of the car, walked around, and opened the hood. There is no hood. What’s more, there’s no engine in the engine bay.
My latest trip to the Pacific Avenue Olympic Restricted Area was even worse than I imagined.
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It’s at this point when you’re faced with a car that’s nothing more than a useless skeleton, a twisted sculpture that reflects your failure not to drive into a tree, avoid an obvious danger, or escape a storm fast enough , you may feel a bit like giving up. But while I’m someone who’s prone to hitting the reload save button when something goes wrong in a game, I’ve never done so.
Instead, I enlisted the help of my friendly neighborhood dumpster, used a scraper to scrape up the useful stuff left outside the auto shop, and started putting my beloved car back together again. I had accomplished the real purpose of Pacific Drive—not to actually drive it, but to prepare to drive it. Now, before we go any further, I admit that, for better or worse, I am a car guy.
I often sit or stand on Sundays and watch them spin in circles, I know my AC Cobra from my MG ZR, and it’s no secret that I loved at least the first few Fast and Furious movies. You know, the ones about speeding and stealing VCRs, not the stories about a vast international conspiracy involving MI6 and the CIA. That said, when it comes to actually owning my own car, having to live with a car that I use to commute to get off work and haul stuff back from the store, I’ve developed what I can only call “car guy imposter syndrome” “disease” symptoms. This thing scares me straight away.
I could barely bring myself to read the Haynes manual or attempt any maintenance other than changing light bulbs or inflating tires. I think the reason is this – I can’t deal with the consequences if something does go wrong. And, like most cars on the road, it’s a used car that’s been driven around the block a few times, so it’s prone to regularly developing new little quirks or issues that can quickly freak me out, Gosh, this could really go wrong sometimes.
On Pacific Avenue, on the other hand, I never have to panic because of my wonderful vintage crimson station wagon with a decidedly not fake wood back panel, a pair of white racing stripes running front to back, and a screaming There may be something wrong with the small face antenna, as it always does. Sometimes it’s as simple as the radio turning on every time I open the hood, or the car door opening when I turn on the wipers, or pulling the handbrake and throwing the fuel gauge out of control.
Sometimes it’s a more serious problem, such as a tire blowing out, a headlight going out completely, or the engine starting to show signs of coming loose. Every time, I don’t have to worry about fixing it because there’s never a worry about your astronomical insurance premiums or the cost of replacement parts. All you have to do is some simple hesitation, as your grandfather might wax lyrical.
The Pacific Avenue is at its best when you’re doing this kind of thing, and even lett ing your grandpa watch you play with it, making him proud, can be a bit like trying to train your cat to be a lifeguard. It all comes together, the sound of the crack in the window being sealed, the clunk of the new tire on the axle, the wet slapping of repair putty on the panel, it’s incredibly satisfying and empowering. The whole process becomes simple. It feels completely different from the often tedious and finger-numbing reality.
What really makes all the maintenance in the game fun, though, is that you have something we mere mortals can never have enough of in real life – time. One of the worst things about commuting, no matter where you’re going, or how much you enjoy what you’re going to do once you get there, is the fact that it takes up less and less of your free time. Got it – especially now that we’re in a time where work/life boundaries are completely eroded. There’s no time to actually prepare for a drive, which means a car—the thing you paid good money for so it could be a noble steed to accompany you on your daily or weekly adventures—is less than ever just a faceless thing machine.
Don’t get me wrong, this element has always been there – cars and Western capitalism are basically inseparable as concepts – but as we move into the current era, it feels like it’s been completely taken over. There are more cars on the roads in the UK than ever before – in most neighborhoods near me you can’t walk a few yards without hitting or at least seeing one.
Additionally, most of the latest cars seem to be SUVs and crossovers that are bigger and wider than ever before – manufacturers think people, especially families, want or need more space, so are being stretched into a hulking, rude monster. They’ve had it before. And then there are electric cars, whose green credentials often come at the expense of a huge butt packed with a ridiculously oversized battery that accidentally sets back car miniaturization by about four decades. Hey, maybe we do need cars the size of houses if we’re going to spend more and more time sitting in ever-increasing traffic jams, filled with ever-increasing frustration.
Additionally, many modern motors have more complex components under the hood that you, even a non-manufacturer-affiliated mechanic, shouldn’t be messing with since you don’t have the specialized equipment required. This makes the new car feel more like a big, bulky phone designed to be dropped rather than held in place. You can see why even self-proclaimed car guys might seek escape.
Pacific Drive has just what you’re looking for. Its gameplay loop has a lot in common with the average commute in today’s world. Regular excursions within the local area are required, usually to the same place. There’s a different set of hazards to contend with along the way – even if a glob of corrosive acid or a blast of rogue electricity is a little different than some crazy Audi trying to hit 100 miles an hour in a school zone.
Some consider cars a lifeline – a companion you rely on to guide you through a hostile world that often feels like it wants to tear you apart and eat you alive. The core appeal of apocalyptic fiction has always been freedom—the freedom to redefine how you experience the world around you now that it’s been wiped clean.
At Pacific Drive, you have the freedom to truly enjoy the simple act of owning a car. Even if that car is just a rattling car with no engine and thrown into a dumpster.
