Drivin' and Cryin'

Editor's Note: Up until now, the author has refrained from profanity, preferring instead to take a somewhat scholarly approach.  Some have called this 'The Pollyanna Effect'.  To counter this rather vague reference, the author has decided to unveil the dark side, albeit only in small doses.  Words or statements surrounded by brackets is what the character is thinking, usually in crude vernacular.  This display, though tame to many, is an attempt at realism.  The author is taking full responsibility for any damages done to the readers' sense of purity.


She got into my SUV and swung the seat belt across her chest and locked in.  She checked the inside mirror and tweaked it.
"Is there a thingy inside to adjust the outside mirror?"
"No, it's not that fancy.  You'll have to lower the window.  That is powered, though."  [Kinda cheap piece of shit, isn't it?]
WHIIRRR.  Nudge.  Nudge.  WHIIRRRR.
"Can you raise the seat?"
"Sorry, not fancy."  [Sorry, fuckin' lame]  A smile appeared slyly on my face.  A frown formed on hers.  "You do know how to put it in gear, don't you?"
"Oh ya.  I drove it to the bank.  With Mom."
"You did?  When?"  [What the fuck?]  My smile fled.  "I didn't know about this."  [Why didn't anybody fuckin' tell me?]  My mind screamed 'Wilma!', ala Fred Flinstone, but I don't know any Wilmas.
"Ya, it was awhile back."  A wary smile leaped onto her face.  She saw or felt my temperature rise a bit.  "I did just fine."

Feeling a little left outside, I buckled in and prepared.  Prepared to let my stepdaughter, Blake, drive to work.  She had just recently acquired her learner's permit.  I prayed.  [Shit.  It's only a few blocks.  Keep calm.]  But my spidey senses were tingling.
"You did OK?"  [No mass mayhem?  Nobody dead?]
"Oh ya, no problem.  I'm a good driver."
[Ya, we'll see about that.]
"I am.  Really."

Blake's eyes were rounder and wider than I had ever noticed them before.  Her face was beaming, no, glowing, with an air of confidence, not cockiness.  I believed her.  Or at least, I wanted to.
Putting it into reverse, we slowly backed down our short, sloped driveway.  I felt weird.
"I feel weird.  I haven't sat over here very often."  [And shit, I don't like it.] 
She confidently backed out and put us into drive.

I'll stop there, if I may.  I had rarely been in a situation, such as this, that I let someone, especially a teenaged someone, put me in a vulnerable position.  Yes, there was that time in college when a fellow dorm mate took my friend and myself for a jaunt in his '68, shiny, baby blue, Chevelle SS, 396 cubes, 325 horses, Turbo-Jet V-8, wide rear tires, rear end jacked up and proceeded to scare the fuckin' crap out of me when he tromped on the gas, the noise was terrible, as if a jet had inhabited the cab, smelling of fuel, I swore I heard unknown things breaking, popping, zinging, maybe it was my ears, as each gear was effortlessly shifted, as my eyeballs blanched, I was able to force myself to glance at the speedometer, shit, it was pressing past 90, now 100, now 110, I had seen enough and, as I was in the backseat, I was able to curl into a withered ball of bones and wished it was over already.  I don't recall crying, just whimpering.  Damn pathetic, I admit.

I couldn't help but relive that horrific moment now as we puttered through our cul-de-sac and subdivision, out onto a small arterial and onward.  So far, so good.  My hands were sweaty, though.
"Your brakes feel a little weird."  Blake's eyes were still focused on the asphalt.  Myself, I had my right eye on the world outside, my left watching her.  I was temporarily cross eyed.
"Ah, what do you mean?"  [Shit, we are going to die.]
"You have to press a lot harder than Kevin's [her wise-ass boyfriend] or Mom's."  She still watched the tar.
[This is good.  She's concentrating on not slamming into anyone or anything.  Fuck, get a grip man.  It's only about four miles to her work.  What can go wrong at 35 mph?  Plenty, my paranoid mind yelled.  We could hit a little old lady, a puppy, a little old man.  Hell, we could hit a Saint Bernard.  Shit, we could go crashing through a fence and land in someone's swimming pool, water rising, trying to kick out the damn windows, fighting for air, holding our breaths, water everywhere, filling up the cab, thrashing, shit, I can't breath...........]

"Mark, should I pull into that parking spot?"
My face was drained of any remaining blood, as if I had lost a few quarts.  My hands were gripping each other in a deathly embrace, squeezing themselves together, compressed into one hand.
"Ah, sure, fine."  I unlocked my twisted hands with a grimace.  We had arrived safely at her work.
"Thanks for letting me drive.  I'll call ya when I get off.  Maybe I can drive back home?"
"Ya, maybe.  Maybe Mom'll pick you up."  [And you can terrorize your mother.]  "Have a great day at work."  I got out and walked around to the driver's side.  "That was pretty good driving."
"See?  I told ya.  Bye."

So there it was.  I not only survived, but I felt as if Blake had learned something from a guy that has been driving for 40 years, survived blizzards, ice packed concrete roads, pot-bellied dirt trails, snow drifts, blinding sunshine, a screaming drive over 100 in the hands of a speed-freak.  And still here to talk about it.

Blake passed her driving test easily.  I could see it in her now even huger eyes when she came home.  Her spirit filled the room, just as mine had so many years before.  I imagined things were speeding through her mind as accelerated as mine had been.  She's a very good driver and we're all relieved that she can handle a 2,000 lb. metal battering ram on wheels.  Now, if only I could get some fuckin' feeling back in my hands, I'd be OK.