Driver's Sped

Many years ago, my mother-in-law got the brilliant idea of helping raise her preteen nephews while their mother was having a difficult time.  Imagine if you will, two New York inner-city kids being transported to sterile and oh so boring Plano, Texas.  Oh sure, the girls loved them with their New York accents and all, but they were so out of their element here.  They coped by acting the tough guy routine and became leaders of the pack they quickly formed.

Bless her little heart, mother-in-law did her best with them.  During their three year Texas tour, she took them shopping, and they came home with gangsta shorts that sagged past their cheeks.  She put them in school, and they skipped more than they attended.  She gave them money, and they seemed to blow through it like they were smoking it.  Um, yes.  She bought them a car, and they wrecked it.

The oldest was about to turn 16 and it was time for his learner’s permit.  Lord have mercy, I don’t know what possessed me to offer to do the freeway driving portion.  I must have been high or at least slightly looney when I raised my hand during the family meeting.  

When my drive time came up later in the week, we got in the car and I suppose in an instant of immortality, I figured this task would be easy.  Off we went.  I found the side street driving was not so bad after all.  He had a pretty good grip of it, so I started to relax.  Then he turned left toward the on-ramp, better known to me now as the evil cement slab where my life flashed before my very eyes.  Off we traversed. 

Wouldn’t you know that Gangsta put the pedal to the medal and held it there?  We careened toward the other cars on 75 and I felt my hair turn instantly grey just at the very moment we hit the soft shoulder, so he could get in front of the pack.  “Dear God, is it over yet?”  I prayed.  After that, we settled into the routine of him swinging in and out of traffic all the way from Plano to McKinney.  By this time I just kept my eyes closed so as not to die of a massive coronary on the spot.

Finally when the terror was more than I could handle, a tiny quivering voice came out of my mouth and said it was time to turn around now.  Holy bat crap, that kid crossed two lanes of traffic and flew down the off-ramp, skidding around the u-ey, and back up the other side of the freeway.  The only time we slowed was as we climbed a giant hill on the service drive as we made our way back to the on-ramp toward hell.  By this time I was bargaining with God about how I had two young children at home who needed me.  Surely this could not be happening.  Surely, I would not die at the hands of this hood that seriously needed the ghetto smacked out of him.

I don’t know how we made it home, but the Snoop Dog mini me got us there.  To be honest, I believe I was in shock, or perhaps I blotted out the horror from my mind.  All I know is that when I opened my eyes again, we were home and I stumbled out of the car and took a nice long lie-down right there on the lawn.  I think I even French kissed the grass.

In that same family meeting, I swear we were not passing the pipe, the hubs must have somehow become brain-damaged as well because he offered to take the mini rapper out for some night driving.  With nerves of steel, hubs sat himself down in the passenger seat and off they went for the very first time in the dark.  Imagine the embarrassment when the young’un tried to turn left out of the neighborhood and went bumpety bump right over the center median in front of a car and then fishtailed himself into the middle lane.  I think it was about this point that my better half started to see the hood was missing a couple genes from the gene pool. 

Interestingly enough, the car that ghetto boy plopped down in front of, proceeded to pull up on the left and look at the driver; a backwards ball capped kid with chunky gold jewelry just visible over the neckline of his oversized jersey.  I mean, the kid was slunked down as far as he could be in his seat so he could just barely see over the dashboard and still look cool.  Then that car fell back and pulled up on the passenger side.  This is when the hubs, better known as the grey-haired sucker who had to teach this Tupac wannabe how to drive, looked over to see who was in the car. It seems the vehicle that Gangsta just cut off and displayed such fantastic and superb driving capabilities in front of was a City of Plano police car. Nice.

As I write this and ponder my own sons’ driving experiences, I hope that they fare better than gangsta who bought my old car, drove back to New York City, and promptly wrecked it, fo’ shizzle.