I was now armed with a driver's license. Even the picture on it was decent. It was, at least, better than the one on my Fordham University I.D.. So, one would think that I was now tooling all over the New York metropolitan area like a king.
Wrong.
Even though I could now drive legally and without an adult chaperone, I retreated back into a cocoon like a butterfly with self-esteem issues. Just what the hell was my problem now?
My problem was the Buick LeSabre picture above. The one we now had in our household was new. And it was my dad's. The wonderfully pristine smell inside it scared the shit out of me. How the heck could I possibly drive this by myself???
So, even though I was cleared to drive a vehicle, I didn't. And, for my first two years commuting to Fordham University, I depended upon the bus, the subway, or the kindness of non-strangers. I was forever the guy who needed the lift home.
Anybody going the way of Mount Vernon? Len needs a lift. Again.
Okay, my dad was working nights in Connecticut so I didn't have direct access to the car a lot anyway. But, even on weekends, I always seemed to opt for the passenger seat of a car. Anybody else's car.
Suddenly, out of the blue, I got bushwhacked. A wedding invitation from a college friend at the radio station. He hadn't invited many other folks from school. I was one of the chosen few. And there definitely wasn't anybody invited from the Westchester area. If I wanted to go, I would have to get there on my own steam.
I looked at the logistical details on the invitation.
Gulp.
The wedding was in Brooklyn!
Gasp.
The reception was at Terrace on the Park in the old World's Fair grounds in Flushing.
Shit.
Did I have an out? A ready-made excuse. Hopefully, my dad would be working that day.
The festivities were scheduled for a Saturday.
Double shit. Who the fuck gets married on a weekend????
Well, most people.
Okay, how was I going to get out of this jam? Maybe I could bring a date. One who drove. One with her own car. I had even less luck at getting that accomplished in those days. Nope, if I were going to attend this shindig, I would have to suck it up and get that car for the day. This would be my maiden solo voyage. To a place I rarely had been before.
After about two weeks of deliberating, I finally broached the notion with my father.
I gave him the details. He took it, well, not well.
"BROOKLYN???? WE DON'T GO TO BROOKLYN!!!!"
Was there a family ordinance I was unaware of? Was there some sort of restraining order that prevented anybody with our last name being in that borough? Hmmmm, that could be my way out.
No luck.
Dad calmed down shortly thereafter and announced that I could have the car for the day.
Gee, thanks. Was asking for it the really hard part? Or was actually getting to Brooklyn and back in one piece the really heavy lifting here? I looked forward to the day with excitement. With pride. With fear.
As I left the house that day, I got the same standard three words I had always gotten from my father for years.
"Just be careful."
That was it? No words of driving wisdom? No secret tips on how to avoid getting into a wreck? Not even a warning to not stop for hitchhikers?
"Just be careful."
Careful I was. I had mapped out my journey days in advance. To me, this was Lindbergh taking off from Long Island for his flight to Paris. I resisted the thought of taking along some food supplies. In case I got stuck for days on the side of the Van Wyck Expressway.
The first part of the trek was easy. At least, I knew how to get myself to the Shea Stadium vicinity. I had ridden that route with Dad countless times. But, once I was past that, all bets were off. I gripped the steering wheel as tightly as some old lady going to her regular Wednesday appointment at the beauty parlor. My god, there are other cars on the road!!! Holy shit!!! I held on for dear life.
I noticed that this new automobile was a bit wider than the one I had learned to drive on. About three miles wider. Geez! Or were the lanes on the Belt Parkway more narrow than any other highway in the world? I felt like I was performing micro-surgery. It was like that old "Operation" game. I'm trying to take that guy's gall bladder out without making the buzzer go off.
I held the steering wheel even tighter.
By the time I got to the Brooklyn church, most of my fears had disappeared. I was in one piece. More importantly, so was the car. I hopped out of the vehicle triumphantly like Al Unser at the last Indy 500. Half the drama was over.
Doubling back to the reception hall was a piece of cake. I had already traversed this route, so I was now an old hand at navigating the wilds of Brooklyn and Queens. There was an accident on the shoulder of one road. I looked at them and scoffed. Rotten drivers! Where did you get your license?
When I got back to Mount Vernon that night, I got the final seal of approval. He was not up nervously pacing for my return. He was sound asleep in bed.
Two days later, a friend called and invited me to a movie in Bronxville, a mere ten minutes away.
"I'll pick you up."
Don't bother. I'll drive.
Two weeks later, I went outside in the morning to see a huge dent on the front fender of the LeSabre. My father was surveying the damage.
"Stupid jerk on a bike ran a stop sign."
The guy's imprint could also be seen on the hood of the car.
Gee, Dad, I got it to Brooklyn and back without a scratch. What's your deal?
Dinner last night: Honey walnut shrimp/Mongolian beef at Panda Inn.
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