Blessed are the Seatbelts, The Airbags Devine

Anonymous

"She doesn't want to die anymore than I do." This is my mantra, every time my wife drives. I repeat it as we careen down the highway, tailgating and swerving between cars, as if we're rehearsing for a police chase video. Sometimes, if I repeat it enough, it keeps me from screaming.

She's put off by the terror and sweat emanating from my side of the car, perturbed that she has to explain. "I can count on one hand the number of speeding tickets I've had." She says. "You need to chill out." She seems proud of this, like she's gotten over on those pesky traffic laws. They're really just suggestions anyway, aren't they? No stupid sign is going to tell her what to do. A multi-tasker she is too, this little dare-devil of mine; twisting caps off water bottles, checking her make-up in the rear view mirror, plundering her giant purse for a stick of gum, all while steering with her knees.

Danny Armour I'm in my usual position in the passenger seat; both feet jammed on the non-existent brakes, legs locked, vainly trying to slow us down. My left forefinger is jabbed at the drivers ahead who are doing only, say, ten miles over the speed limit or have the audacity to take up an entire lane. My shoulders are hunched against the not yet, but inevitable, impact of crunching metal, eyes spinning as I try to look in two directions at once. My right hand though...I keep it near the door handle. Like a skydiver's fingers bracing the ripcord, my right hand controls my destiny.

Some day, just to end the grinding suspense, I'm going to yank that door handle and fling myself onto the blistering asphalt. My wife, Denise, will wish she had listened to me then as my body cartwheels, jackknifes, and pirouettes, coming to rest in the breakdown lane. I do plan living through this. Suffering a bit of road rash, maybe a broken arm, I can show the world..."Look. Look what she did to me."

She'll be in the next county before she's able to slow down enough to turn around. "Now why did he do that?" She'll wonder as she rockets back, freshening her lipstick.

I, meanwhile, will be lying beside the road, in agony, yet strangely relieved, smiling at the crystal blue sky, knowing my next ride will be in the back of a nice, safe, ambulance.

Of course, I don't talk about torn metal and crushed bodies when we're pulling out of the driveway. That would be like discussing the plane going down as you try to stow your carry-on. Instead, in hushed tones as to not distract, I speak of where we're going and what we'll do the rest of the day. This is my trusting faith that we'll actually arrive at our destination and there will be a rest of the day. A short trip to the mall usually leaves me so nervous and exhausted I just wander around nodding and grunting at everything Denise says until it's time for me to carry the packages to the car.

I tried doing all the driving myself and it worked well for a while. Then one day Denise says, "You know, you're driving a lot lately. I'll drive today." Before I could stop her she's in the car, tooting the horn and revving the engine. There I was, back in the passenger seat, replaying those past scenes of horror I knew would repeat themselves in a new and more frightening form.

One of my favorites is the time a car pulled out in front of us on Finch Farm Road. Anyone could clearly see he wasn't going to stop. My wife seemed not to notice.

"I don't think that guy's going to stop." I mentioned helpfully. His car kept inching onto the road. I sat up straighter. "Uh...Honey, he's not stopping."

The other driver made his move and came out, crossing in front of us. We sped up. We...sped...up. She had seen him alright. Like a hawk zeroing in on a rabbit.

"We're going to hit that idiot!" I tried not to shout, my left forefinger was working overtime.

"Let's see how fast we can make him go." Denise laughed and floored the gas pedal.

I could see the pale face of the other driver as we bore down on him. He knew he'd made a mistake, a slight miscalculation of angle and velocity. Really no different than when his science project flopped in school. But this time his flunking grade was going to be carnage. I have to give him credit though, that was some piece of driving on two wheels like that as he tried to get out of the way. It couldn't have been easy.

"I bet he won't try that again." My wife smirked, finally easing off the pedal.

It's not her fault, honestly. I believe that. It's genetics. I've ridden with her mother.

The local auto body repair shop my mother-in-law frequents has gallons of paint pre-mixed to match the color of her car. This is true. The guys at the shop told her if she could go six months without an accident, they would buy her a steak dinner. True, again. This is how they make their living and she keeps them so busy they're trying to turn her business away. They don't have time to use the new bass boats her insurance company bought them.

While visiting the mother-in-law in Orlando we all decided to head to St. Pete for a couple of days. We take Highway Four, it's a straight shot, no turns, no maps to read, easy. I'm sitting in the back seat, mama-in-law's driving, the weather is perfect, everything is fine. I'm thinking of lying in the sun with a cold adult beverage and no cares. All was well until I heard my mother-in-law start cursing. This is a warning to fasten your seat belt, we will be experiencing some turbulence.

Florida is almost surrounded by water. I don't swim all that well. We were crossing many bridges at, what I thought, a high rate of speed. We were swerving in and out of a perfectly good lane but mostly tailgating. Tailgating with authority. I can honestly say the fella ahead of us had dandruff. Not overtly noticeable, but something he would need to tend to, all the same. Since the back seat floorboard doesn't even have a pretend brake I considered lying down. But, my God, the thought of not being able to see what was happening on the road ahead was unbearable. My right hand was shoved deep into my pocket because, even crazy with fear, I wasn't about to jump out of a four door, compact missile with a "Dancing Dolores" vanity plate. Besides, what if I bounced off the bridge?

"That son-of-a-bitch needs to speed up or get out of the way." Dancing Dolores was ready to swap some paint. It wasn't like she didn't know where there was plenty more, in her color. "Jeez-o-man, we could have been there already. He needs to get the Hell out of my way!" She seemed focused. I, on the other hand, have never been more terrified in my life.

We finally got around the SOB in question and my wife pointed to the exit ahead. "That's us." She said.

"Are you sure?" Asked mother-in-law. "I don't see a sign."

"It's right there." Said Denise, pointing almost straight up.

I was almost physically ill. "You mean...you mean you've been driving like a lunatic for seventy miles and you can't see that sign? If it fell right now it would hit one of us on the head! Shouldn't you be wearing glasses? Aren't you restricted to glasses?" Spittle flew from my mouth, my voice quavered. "My God, do you drive by feel? Are you hoping they'll start printing the signs in Braille?" I told my wife later, "If you love me you'll drive back to Orlando. Please don't make me get back in that car with your mother behind the wheel. Please." That's right, I pleaded with my wife to drive. As bad as she is, her mother takes terror to another level.

On another evening in Orlando, on rain-soaked streets no less, we approached three consecutive traffic lights that were clearly red. Just as it looked like we were going to plow right on through, Dancing Dolores slammed on the brakes and halfway into the intersection we sailed. Thankfully it was late and no other cars were in our way. I was in the back seat holding on for dear life and biting my tongue. I had been chastised for my outburst in St. Pete. Denise and her mother were laughing like a couple of teenagers joyriding in daddy's Buick. There's just something about the chance of vehicular manslaughter that brings families together.

Maybe my wife never had a chance. She was destined to be a lead-foot while still in the womb. I bet that ride to the hospital was a hoot with Dolores driving, doing ninety and cursing the whole way. "Get out of the way you SOB, I've gotta have this baby! I have an appointment to get my car painted in the morning." Denise inherited that gene, the one that makes her crazy when she gets behind the wheel of a car. But she has her luck, although she was born to speed she can count her tickets on one hand and has never been involved in a fatal collision, that she knows of.

So maybe she really doesn't want to die anymore than I do. I guess that's the real reason I find myself back in the passenger seat. Lately I've began pretending I'm in a jet fighter, piercing the blue skies. It's amazing how calming this fantasy is. I just sit back, relax, and enjoy the view, right hand on the door handle. The poor man's ejector seat.

Comments (6)

|174.111.85.xxx |2010-04-07 07:42:29 Anonymous

What makes you think she will come back to get you!?
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|98.105.158.xxx |2010-04-07 19:03:19 Steve - You're a twisted individual!

Denise and Crystal could start a WMD carpool. Pray that they never unknowingly attempt to occupy the same stretch of road at the same time!
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