My theory is that once you give birth to something, it is unnatural to allow it to get behind the wheel of a car where you are a passenger. Even with helpful accessories, such as an extra brake pedal or drop down oxygen mask, someone who never asked me to cut the icky parts off the bread needs to be in charge in case of emergencies such as a four-way stop or sudden loss of radio station.
It is traumatic enough to teach a teenage boy to drive without having to do it during a period when oil sells for more per barrel than the movie Titanic grossed during its entire run—including endorsements, action figures, and Leo DeCaprio’s autograph on a commission check. We had to take out a loan to teach him to parallel park.
When this kid put his size 17 foot on the gas pedal, he burned $27.50 of premium unleaded and left a skid mark in my driveway composed of the entire collection of memorial state quarters. When he revs the engine at stoplights, the smell of burning presidents fills the air like fake butter scent at a movie matinee. If Abraham Lincoln’s only claim to fame had been to make it to the face of the five dollar bill, he would have lived in vain.
All in all the driving lessons went well. Son One, the Highway Patrolman’s retirement plan, got his drivers license on the first try.
As for the Captain, prescription medication and another round of shock therapy should help. The sudden outbursts of screaming, “Oh God no! Stop or I’m cutting the power to the television forever. STOP! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, STOP!” are a hit at parties, especially the ones attended by psychiatric patients or parents of teenaged drivers.
So, it turns out the Captain has charm after all. Because if someone’s willing to take the speeding bullet so I don’t have to, that’s good enough for me.
(Come vist me at Mind over Mullis. Today I'm using my new friend, the Jaws of Life, to help me try on swimsuits.)