Student Driver
My husband’s grandfather once held a job as an ambulance driver. This was back in the day when the nearest hospital was about an hour away and the town’s local ambulance also served as its Hearse, depending on the timing of the situation. Regularly, he would drive 100 mph on the interstate, sirens wailing. While he eventually gave up the ambulance gig, he still drove as if the sirens howled atop his Cavalier, well into his 80’s. I’m blaming my son’s driving on him. Kind of. Not really.
One by one, my father taught all five of us how to drive. We each learned the pedal coordination of a manual transmission. I was not allowed behind the wheel until I could successfully change a tire, find the hazard lights, and check the oil. He was calm but firm in his manner, frequently making acronyms out of instructions so they’d be easy to remember. TSBB = turn signal before brake. LOWR = lights on when raining. Everything’s an acronym in the military. “Be defensive,” he’d say. “You gotta watch out for Isadore Idiot.”
I can’t for the life of me figure out how he made it through five fledgling drivers without hard liquor, medication, or some unfortunate facial tics. Three years ago, our firstborn got her license. For the most part, teaching her went well. There was that time she drove our van down a shoulder-less road, steep ditches dropping on either side. For the next two days I couldn’t figure out why my right arm was so sore before it dawned on me that I’d been gripping the door handle, trying from the passenger seat to single handedly pull a 2000 pound vehicle away from the dropoff as it sped down the road.
The first time she merged onto an interstate, we were neck and neck with a semi, quickly running out of lane. My normally unflappable husband sat in the back seat behind her, a giant tire spinning beside his window, hoarsely screaming, “WE’RE NOT GONNA MAKE IT!” as my son obliviously played video games beside him. Once we finally merged, he directed her to immediately get off at the next exit and pull over, muttering under his breath that we’d almost wiped out the entire Blaylock line with that maneuver. Despite this, the daughter’s license was not so hair-raising for me.
The son, Fifteen, is another matter. I reasoned that all those years of riding tractors with his Papaw, zipping around on ATVs at the farm, and the superior hand-eye coordination he no doubt has developed from incessant video games should make this a walk in the park. True, if that park is Jurassic and there are velociraptors in the bushes.
Am I a perfect driver? No I am not. My record has some blemishes. A ticket here, a fender bender there. People often share knowing glances and accuse me of “making good time” on road trips. Still, passengers generally do not grip the armrests and pray out loud when riding with me.
I think it’s his demeanor. He is bright, happy, casual, and possesses no fear. Also, lately, he has decided to like the Electronica station on the radio. If you’re not familiar, this music–and I use the term loosely–is mostly repetitive synthesized beats that gradually ratchet up in intensity until you reach a “drop,” which you can tell by the seizure-inducing bass and change in tempo. He claims this music helps him concentrate. I claim it gives me an aneurysm.
Also, it could be that, while driving, he blithely poses curious questions that do not give me warm fuzzies. Such as: do you think you can you drive a car down the road backwards as fast as you can drive it forwards? Have you ever just pressed the gas all the way to the floor to how far the speedometer would go? These questions give me feelings similar to ones you might feel if your kid were to casually ask, “What, do you think, would be the fastest way to poison your parents where no one would ever know?” That is, suspicion and the slightest nudge of discomfort.
The other day, I agreed to let him drive around town to do some errands. It was not my finest hour. After about 45 minutes of my wise counsel and fielding comments like, “Well, that’s not how dad says I should do it,” I had one very small sinuous nerve left, and he was on it. We were sitting at a stop sign, the Electronica music was reaching an intense moment (if he’s going to play it on his own, he may as well play it while practicing), and the car in front of us moved through the intersection. He stepped on the gas to follow as if a red light had just changed to green.
As I looked to the left to see the oncoming car through the intersection, my brain raced with synonyms for the word “STOP,” but apparently decided that none of them were sufficient. I swung my left arm across his chest to somehow shield him from all harm, and instead, from somewhere in the depth of my terrified being, my brain accessed another, shall we say, less appropriate word, also containing four letters. This word, the mother of all of the worst words, clawed its way from my gut through my lips as I screamed. Turns out, hearing your mother yell this less than a foot away will also mercifully cause you to stop a vehicle.
I don’t remember my mother ever giving a single driving lesson. Maybe somewhere along the way, after repeated visions of her offspring in twisted heaps of metal, she no longer wanted to ride the roller coaster of near-death terror and the adrenaline depleted catatonia that follows. It’s just better not to know.
Hours later, once I could breathe normally again, it occurred to me that we are all student drivers of sorts. We climb behind the wheel giddy and eager for the freedom of the open road, when we can barely stay in our lane. We are cocksure and casual, leaning our elbows out the open window with an arrogant finger barely brushing the wheel. After about a month, surely well-seasoned by now, we discover the horn and its easy contempt for others. How often do I know better, thinking the road signs are merely suggestions rather than protection for myself and everyone else? How often do I sarcastically point out, “Well, that’s not how they said to do it?” Music loud and attention elsewhere, it’s easy to disregard the voice offering counsel from the passenger seat. I’ve surely given Jesus some aching arms from trying to pull me away from the ditches.
After our silent ride home that day, I apologized profusely and banned myself from further driving lessons. His father will have to press on from here, while I lock myself in the bathroom and suck on some soap.