I will explain.
First off, the photo above is not my dad's car but it's pretty darn close. A huge barge as could only be manufactured by Buick for their LeSabre line. It was something you steered carefully like the Titanic. And, unlike the latter, Dad's vehicle probably would have survived a collision with an iceberg.
Secondly, as I ease into this story, I must tell you that I was a late driver. Whereas most kids would clamor to get their driver's license as soon as they turned 16, I probably held a learner's permit longer than anybody in automotive history. I was in college and in no hurry given most of my pals at school had wheels and were available chauffeurs for yours truly. Plus I lived in Mount Vernon, New York. Close to subways and buses and commuter rail.
My dad took me for driving lessons during that permit era. Even though I wasn't driving on my own, he wanted to keep "my skills" fresh. So, on Sunday afternoons, he would take me to Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx and let me drive all over the facility. As my father would say...
"You really can't kill anybody in here. They're already dead."
Thanks for the confidence.
Eventually, in my junior year of college, I finally submitted to the DMV testing on the road. In Westchester, you went for this at a designated area near the old Adventurer's Inn in the Cross County Shopping Center. The urban legend which was more true than not was that white teen-age boys were always flunked their first road test by the snarky black female testers.
Yes, I did fail the first time. Bitch. But I did pass the second time.
About a month later, I got a wedding invitation from college friends. They were to get married in Brooklyn. Then a gala reception at a restaurant on the old World's Fair grounds in Flushing.
Now, normally, I could have gotten a lift to the festivities with another pal. But the only person I knew who was going happened to be in the wedding party. Hmmm. I would have to get there under my own steam. By myself. My invitation didn't have a plus one.
I came to the grim discovery that the only way I could get there was by driving. Luckily, the wedding day was a Saturday. My father would be off from work. The four-wheel boat would be available.
I deliberated a good week getting up my nerve to bring this situation to my dad. Gulp. Gulp again. I mean, this wasn't driving Grandma to the A and P on Oak Street. This was Brooklyn. My family didn't do Brooklyn. I had only been to that borough twice in my life. Both times in the passenger seat.
This was a Band Aid that needed to be ripped off quickly. I took the deepest breath ever and went into the kitchen and asked the question. My father looked up from his Sunday Daily News funnies.
"Okay. Be careful."
Huh?
Where is my real father and when will the aliens return him?
Admittedly, I am sure that both my parents probably held their own collective breath until this wedding day had passed. But they didn't show any fear as the day approached. This had to be a major leap of faith for them.
I mapped out the race course many times. There would be roads and bridges I had never been on before as a driver. The Whitestone. The Van Wyck. The Belt Parkway. My God, had anybody in my family ever been on the Belt in their entire lives?
On that Saturday, I, too, was nervous. I held the steering wheel so tightly that my fingerprints were on it for eternity. Plus I drove slowly. Like one of those senior citizens you see on the road doing 20 MPH in a 60 MPH zone.
From Mount Vernon to the church in Flatbush to the reception in Flushing was one big inhale.
I remember seeing my friend who was the usher at the wedding.
"How many trains and buses did you take to get here?"
None, I said proudly.
Yep, there are those days you remember from your youth. Those moments when your parents truly surprise you.
In a good way.
Dinner last night: Chopped Italian salad at Maria's.
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