Baltimore City Bippers

We need to have a serious conversation about Baltimore City drivers. The gas-pedaling, rubber-rubbing, wheel-whipping metal riders. Or as my friend Jalen would say, the bippers – those who are able to flexibly move through life. Or as I would say, those who wield the wheel with the energy of cats after using the litter box; which is to say, Baltimore City bippers have a serious case of the zoomies. No direction, but fast. No law, but furious. And unfortunately, it stands to trial, there is no one and nothing as consistently threatening as those with temporary tags. 

In Baltimore City, if you see someone with temporary tags you should hide your kids and your wife. Most of the time you don’t even need to see the back of the car to know that the person speeding in your rearview mirror has temporary tags. If you’re unfamiliar with noticing temporary tag bippers here are some things to ask yourself: is the car driving twice as fast as the speed limit? Is the car unaware of straight lines? Is the car unaccustomed to using one lane? Does the car not acknowledge traffic lights or any laws? Does the driver seem totally okay with ending your life or their own in a metal ton motorized gun? If the answer is yes to one or all of these, then you have in fact crossed paths with a temporary tag bipper. 

When I was a kid, my parents had matching silver cars. I don’t know the make or model, but maybe from this image, you do? Rolling up to church, the mall, the penn relays, the thrift store and getting out of one of two very shiny silver wheels was the most I felt like a celebrity. The cars were slick in the way grand marquees were but minus the cop feeling. They shone like oversized quarters and rode smooth as hair grease. Big bodied and long like canoes, these cars had leather seats that nestled me into many quick and deep naps. 

But what was most surprising about these cars were not their parts, but their drivers– my parents– two very straight-laced Bible-pushing nine-to-fivers; an IT dude and a library lady. But true to their West Baltimore roots, they had purchased slick cars to show off. 

The other day, one of my friends posted a video of what looked like an impromptu car show on North Avenue and Mount Royal. Cars with decked out rims, big wheels nearly 15 feet off the ground, passengers hanging out the window wearing pink ski masks, and Tate Kobang blasting. Were they racing or were they riding? Who knows. One thing was for sure, they were showing off. 

I walk Druid Hill Park frequently. A lot of the time there’s these smoke fogged car shows happening right by Safety City. Whole neighborhoods of bippers showing out and off the work they’ve done to their cars. The fog so thick you think it was smoke from Canadian wildfires. Cars iced out in mechanical drip so impressive you’d think it was Fashion Week for metal. Dozens of people hanging out of or alongside cars or making donuts in the asphalt of the parking lot or grazing their hands over studded rims or just simply drinking 40s while blasting K-Swift mixes from behind tinted windows.

I’ve never seen more accidents than at the intersection of Gwynn Falls Parkway and Auchentoroly Terrace. The loud crash of metal on metal. The splash of a bumper on a pole. The screams of people, children. Just last week, I was walking to the park and a child was sobbing in his mother’s arms. The other drivers talked to the police in hushed tones. Both cars crumpled like smashed origami. Why do we love our cars? Tricked out and doing tricks. Why do we love showing off our cars more than we do our children?

When I moved back to Baltimore, I knew I needed a car. As much as I love public transit, our city is not the city for consistent bus schedules or cross city-county rides. (The Red Line, oh the Red Line!). So I asked my Uncle Junie if he could take me out to look. We drove all the way from his house in Edmondson Village straight down Liberty Road. Eventually we spotted a used car lot. I narrowed down the cars based on how much I had to spend. That’s when I saw it: a 2006 white Chrysler Sebring. It had 99K miles on it and front bumper rounded like a pout. The body of the car was long like my parents’ silver cars. Immediately, I called Uncle Junie over to inspect. 

-Does it look good, Uncle?

-Yeah, looks good Jay. 

We went inside to inquire. There were only 3 people working there– one on the phones, one working the lot, and one who seemed to be doing a mix of both. 

-Can I see the MD inspection? 

-Sure. Tomorrow when you come back. 

-Can we see the car history? The VIN?

-Sure. Tomorrow when you come back. 

-Why doesn’t the radio work? 

-Sure. Tomorrow when you come back. 

The next day, Uncle Junie took me to the bank. I took out all the money I’d made waitressing that summer–$2500. We drove back to the used car lot. If I knew then what I know now, I would never have gone back the second day. But I was in haste. I needed wheels. I never saw the inspection paperwork. Never got the car history. Never knew until later the radio was an electrical issue that would cost me an extra $600 to fix. Never knew Uncle Junie ain’t know nothing about cars. 

With temporary tags, the lot guy drove us off the lot. The only thing I remember about that ride was it was fast and furious. We rode like a tsunami. We rode without regard to traffic lights or laws. We rode in two lanes and not straight. We rode until we hit an office suite in Catonsville where he handed over the “MD inspection papers” and this couple–his friends– handed over my tags.

I think about that car a lot. I think about the 2 years we spent together riding up and down Route 40. I think about the time I had to sleep in that car after a drunk night out. I think about how near the end, that car would just silently shut itself off in the middle of driving. 

I think about that car when it’s late at night, and I’m in Upton or Charles Village trying to get back home, stuck at a 3 minute red light. I think, What would my Sebring do? Then, I count the red light as a stop sign and roll straight through.