On the way to work this morning, I came up behind a PT Cruiser with a bright yellow sign on the rear.
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“NEW DRIVER,” it screamed, in big, bold, capital letters.
It’s always important to know what kind of idiot you’re sharing the road with, so I slid over into the passing lane and crept forward to get a better look at this “new” person.
The driver turned out to be a forty-something woman, with a cigarette dangling from her lip. She didn’t exactly fit my criteria of “new.” There was no sparkle to her aura; in fact there was no aura at all. The only glow emanating from the vehicle was the cherry on her Marlboro Light.
One advantage of sending your kid to a chain-smoking driving instructor is that they’ll learn how to survive in an oxygen deprived environment. This may come in handy if they go on to become a bartender or choose to live in a submarine.
My morning commute is typically filled with sleepy-eyed Johns, munching on sausage biscuits while juggling a steaming cup of coffee. I like to get about a car length in front of them and slam on my brakes at irregular intervals. There’s nothing like giving Willie Winky a hot bath on a cold morning to get the ol’ blood pumping.
Some men follow me for blocks, or attempt to pull up beside my car to offer their gratitude. I appreciate the friendly hand gestures and loud words of encouragement, but I’m much too humble to take credit for teaching them the value of cup holders, so I just turn up the stereo and pretend no one else is around.
We working women face an even more daunting challenge. After sleeping till the last possible second, we leap from bed, send hubby off to work, and get the kids ready for school or daycare. This leaves no time for the all-important chore of “putting on one’s face.”
That’s why I encouraged my teenage daughter to sign up for the Maybelline Advanced Drivers Course for women. (Pardon me while I rave about how wonderful and patient the instructors are in this class.) Normally, this is an eight-week course, but my Regina knocked it out in only four.
They start with basic left knee steering, then add more complicated maneuvers as the student becomes comfortable and gains confidence in hands-free operation of the vehicle. To graduate, attendees must be able to safely navigate the freeway at seventy-miles-per-hour, simultaneously text their best friend with one hand, apply mascara with the other, and scream at unruly children in the back seat. Upon completion, the girls receive a Beauty of the Boulevard ankle bracelet and a gift certificate for Maybelline eye-care products.
I couldn’t be prouder of that girl, but there’s no way I’m getting in a car with her behind the wheel.
New drivers, like Regina, tend to be road-hazards due to over-confidence. At that age, they’re swinging the world by the tail and feel twelve-foot-tall and bullet-proof. Nothing bad has ever happened to them, so why worry now?
I loved the look on Regina’s face when I handed her that first auto insurance bill. Miss Priss sure tumbled from her pedestal that day. Welcome to my world, Sister.
The only thing more dangerous than new drivers is old drivers. God, they scare the crap out of me.
It doesn’t bother me that they’re old, or that they suffer from a massive dose of incompetence, diarrhea, constipation, and gout. Heck, I can even live with their poor vision, slow reaction time, failure to use turn signals, and the inability to accelerate beyond forty miles-per-hour. What gets me is the times of day they choose to invade our highways.
For some reason, every appointment they make has to be first thing in the morning. Be it the doctor, hairdresser, proctologist, or anal-retentive hearing specialist, they’ve got to be sitting on the front step when the door opens. Heaven forbid waiting until mid-morning or early afternoon to avoid rush-hour traffic. Hell no, they have to get out there and congest the highways, see how many people they can make late for work, maybe even throw in a fender-bender or two.
Unfortunately, morning satisfaction is not enough for some of these oldsters. About four in the afternoon, they hit the road again to wreak havoc on the poor folks getting off work. Lord knows, they can’t afford to miss that early-bird senior discount at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Why, if they can make it back home by six-thirty, they might even catch the first half of “Wheel of Fortune” before falling asleep in the recliner.
I guess I shouldn’t complain. Someday I’ll be old too—if I live long enough. Just think of all the employment opportunities these old people generate for traffic cops, insurance adjusters, and paramedics. They certainly do their part to stimulate the economy.
But for safety’s sake, isn’t it about time we labeled their automobiles? A simple solution would be to plaster “OLD DRIVER” across the back of their Cadillac or Lincoln Towncar. If you prefer a kinder, gentler expression of geriatric notation, I propose “BLUE-HAIR BEHIND THE WHEEL,” or the gender friendly “OCTOGENARIAN OPERATOR.”
Now, some of you may think it cruel and demeaning to label our senior’s vehicles. Get over it. If the federal government can mandate seatbelts, child restraints, and McDonalds coffee temperature in the name of public safety, then why not flag the old geezer’s starship?
Like I tell my grandson, “If you don’t like the way I drive . . . stay off the sidewalk.”
Bio -Russell Gayer is a 4th generation Ozark native, residing on the original family homestead near Goshen, Arkansas. His humorous short stories and poetry have won several awards. He has been published in Ozark Mountaineer magazine, various anthologies, and on-line at www.frontiertales.com.Â
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