Chapter 24

Funny story—true story. I figured you could use a bit of comic relief about now, before shit gets serious again.

It was my sophomore year in high school, fall, Driver’s Education. Our group hit the road about a half-hour after school ended and went until around six in the evening. There were four in my group, Mr. Newmier’s group, and the three hours or so we spent in the crappy old Plymouth K Car every evening was joyless. Newmier didn’t believe that cars and fun should mix. He was a grumpy old fuck who taught Earth Science during the day and Driver’s Education in the evening, a career choice most of us kids wondered about because he obviously hated kids. Bad kids, nice kids, noisy kids, quiet kids. He treated them all with equal contempt.

Marcy, I don’t remember her last name, was a quiet, mousy, bespectacled thing who seemed to fear everything and everyone in the world, and after the first few days of Driver’s Education, Mr. Newmier was at the top of her To-Be-Feared list.

Unfortunately for the rest of us, her fear usually manifested itself in a complete inability to operate a motor vehicle.

Our route led us from school through the residential district, into downtown East Paradise Valley, across the bridge into the West Valley, then on the highway west out of town for about ten miles. Then back again. We did the route twice before landing back at school.

The order in which we drove changed daily. One day I’d get to cruise the relatively calm four o’clock pre-rush streets of residential and East Valley downtown, the next, I might be cruising back through the East Valley when all hell broke loose on the streets at just after five and everyone wanted to be home now. The worst driving shift was the second loop heading out of town, and we all dreaded the day when Marcy What’s-Her-Name landed behind the wheel for her turn through that homicidal after work free-for-all.

When it finally happened, it was worse than we could have imagined.

“The speed limit is fifty-five,” Mr. Newmier said, and began thumping the worn foam of the dash with the palm of his right hand, his signal to speed the fuck up. The left hand he kept ready at all times to seize the steering wheel should the need arise, which it often did with Marcy.

I sat behind the grouchy old fart on that day and had a good view of Marcy’s pinched and blushing face.

She was driving no faster than forty-five, and the traffic was stacking up behind us like a high-speed game of dominoes.

The boy sitting directly behind her was holding tight to his Oh Shit handle, and the girl sitting between us had a hand hovering over each of our legs, fingers bent into claws, ready sink them in if she needed something to hold on to.

Newmier’s rhythmic tap-tap-tapping sped up, and I grabbed my Oh Shit handle to keep my hand occupied. It wanted to reach out and swat the back of his head.

“Speed up! Speed up!”

She sped up, all the way to fifty. She watched the speedometer with grim determination, and Newmier grabbed the steering wheel to negotiate a corner she completely failed to notice, saving us all from a trip through the guardrail and into the river.

Marcy squealed with fright, blushed harder, focused back on the road, dropped back to forty.

Newmier’s tap-tap-tap became whap-whap-whap.

“Fifty-five,” he all but bellowed at her. “Speed up!”

The man behind us, no more than an inch or two from our bumper, began beeping his horn almost in time with Newmier’s whapping.

I turned to have a look.

His face was glowing red with rage. He leaned over his steering wheel, his teeth bared.

Beep-beep-beep...

Whap-whap-whap...

I faced forward again and saw tears leaking from Marcy’s eyes.

“Speed up!”

Beep-beep-beep...

Whap-whap-whap...

I saw an amazing thing, Marcy moving past fear and somewhere into anger in no more than a blink.

She stomped down on the gas and we lurched forward, or came as close to a lurch as a K Car can manage anyway.

I leaned forward for a better look at the speedometer.

We were now going sixty.

The guy behind us continued to hug our bumper, but at least let off the horn.

“Fifty-five,” Newmier bellowed, and tapped the instructor’s brake on his side of the car.

The asshole behind us smacked into our rear bumper and laid down on the horn. Another peek back revealed an impressive display of road rage—red faced, spit flying, fist waving.

“Pull over...goddamnit!” Newmier seemed ready to give the guy behind us a run for his money in the rage department.

Weeping openly, Marcy slowed and pulled into the breakdown lane.

More horns honked and cars swerved out of the way as the asshole behind us leapt from his car and ran toward us.

Marcy’s mouth dropped open and froze when she saw him running toward her.

Newmier jumped out of the K Car’s passenger door and shuffled around the front of the Driver’s Ed car to head him off.

I saw where it was going, made a call, probably a bad one, and opened my door.

Newmier and Asshole were nose to nose on the white line, traffic swerving dangerously around them. Neither of them noticed me as I waved Marcy into the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel.

The call might have been bad, but the timing was good. Asshole picked Newmier up and gently heaved him aside, then dove for the door just as I pulled it closed.

“Fucked up my car!” He punched the window, shattered it, and reached for me.

I put my foot down on the gas and damn near took his hand off as I merged back into traffic.

“We are so fucked,” a small voice said from the backseat.

I didn’t say anything. No need to repeat the obvious.

A few seconds later I saw the asshole’s car speeding along the breakdown lane, trying to catch up. Doing a good job of it too. As a getaway car the Plymouth K left a lot to be desired. We topped out at sixty-five, then stayed there as the asshole’s car pulled even with us in the breakdown lane.

I looked at him.

He looked at me and grinned.

I knew what he was about to do and there was nothing I could do to stop him.

“Fifty-five,” Marcy squeaked from the passenger seat, and stomped down on the instructor’s brake.

We juddered and slid to a stop, the cars behind us laying on their brakes and their horns in a symphony of angry rush hour chaos. The asshole who had been beside us only a second before made his move.

He’d meant to ram us, but instead passed in front of us at sixty-five, crossed the oncoming lane, slipping neatly through a gap in the oncoming traffic completely untouched, and shot into the ditch.

I pulled over at the next rest area to vomit and wait for the cops.

We all got off lucky. Mr. Newmier suffered a cracked rib, the asshole a concussion, broken wrist, assorted cuts and contusions, Marcy a minor nervous breakdown, and I lost a perfectly good lunch, but there was no actual loss of life.

The responding officer didn’t shoot or arrest me, but they didn’t compliment me on my driving either.

I failed Driver’s Ed that time around, but it could have gone worse.