One of the first stories I read online in the New York Times this morning, after finishing off a noggin of spinach juice sprinkled with brick dust and crushed dilithium crystals as a digestif, had this compelling lead paragraph:
ALBANY — The New York State Senate approved a bill on Monday to grant driver’s licenses to undocumented immigrants, a deeply polarizing issue that had splintered Democrats and stirred a backlash among Republicans in New York and beyond, who have already vowed to highlight it during next year’s elections.
"Good for them" I said out loud to a nearby box of Kleenex; "they deserve a break."
Falling back into my recliner (or what I thought was my recliner; it was actually the laundry hamper -- rather damp and malodorous, but comfy all the same), I descended into a warm hazy reverie about my early attempts at becoming a licensed motorist back when you could still shoot a megacerops for sport.
As a child our family had one car, and that one car belonged to dad -- otherwise affectionately known as the Old So-and-So. He did not suffer passengers gladly. I walked a block to grade school, a half mile to high school, and when I wanted to go see a movie with my friends downtown he generously flipped me a quarter for bus fare. Under such spartan conditions you'd think I would want to learn to drive and get my own jalopy asap -- but that was not the case. I enjoyed walking and even took an interest in the bizarre bus patrons I rubbed clavicles with -- I recall a wizened crone who sat next to me with a paper bag overflowing with green crab apples; she munched them contentedly as we sped down East Hennepin Avenue (always pronounced "Ees Tennapin" by the locals.) I sampled one at her invitation, nearly swallowing my lips at its astringency.
So when the time came to take Driver's Ed as a sophomore in high school I spurned the offer in favor of a course in Mandarin Chinese calligraphy -- much more useful, to my way of thinking, than learning how to whiz around like Barney Oldfield. (If you're not getting these references, it's okay -- I picked up a lifetime supply of 'em while watching Mack Sennett films at the Minneapolis Film Society and reading an omnibus of S.J. Perelman, and they have only grown more obscure as time goes by and my brain ossifies.)
Fast forward 7 years to a mellow fall day at my parent's house, where I was cadging room and board while I hunted up some scarce moolah to finance my upcoming LDS mission. I was giving mouth to mouth resuscitation to my bank book when the phone rang. It was my old circus pal Steve Smith -- we had clowned together with Ringling and then gone down to Mexico to study pantomime for a season before parting ways. He had a job offer from Ringling to do the advance clowning and he wanted me along as his partner. I told him that was mighty white of him (we were both whiteface clowns -- so don't have a conniption fit) and asked what the salary was. With prudent saving for a year, it was enough to set me up for two years of proselyting on my own, so I jumped at the offer.
"We start in November" he told me. "And the show is giving us a motorhome to live in for free! You can drive now, can't you?"
"Um, of course I drive -- just got back from a road trip to Bemidji. I drive like a manioc -- uh, I mean maniac . . . hee hee hee" I ended the sentence with a high pitched giggle reminiscent of Peter Lorre's chuckle when wrapping his fingers around Fay Wray's throat.
Of course I didn't drive -- but if I told that to Smith it might mess up this sweet deal. I could learn by the time we had to go out on the road. It was just a harmless fib, n'est ce pas?
Well, long story short -- I didn't learn to drive by November, but I dasn't tell Smith that. So when it came time to pull out of Winter Quarters in Venice, Florida, in our 32 foot behemoth, I gallantly told Smith he could do the honors. We drove up towards Jacksonville, and I figured that Smith, who was a Type A Alpha Male all the way, might just decide he would do all the driving himself -- so I would be off the hook.
But the backstabbing little squirt pulled over at a rest stop, yawned prodigiously, and told me he was going in the back for a snooze and that I should proceed to take us into Jacksonville. I gamely engaged the gears and eased us out into traffic, where I weaved erratically from lane to lane at an exhilarating 25 mph for several minutes until a state trooper flashed me to the side of the road and promptly read both Smith and I the riot act. Smith had the presence of mind to offer the trooper a sheaf of Annie Oakleys -- free circus tickets -- and he let us off with a severe dressing down.
Then I caught h-e-double toothpick from Smith for my egregious deception -- but we managed to patch things up when I promised to do all the cooking for the two of us, thus saving us both a fortune.
"Okay, Tork" he said grudgingly. "I'll drive us to the nearest Publix and we can get the fixings for fried chicken and mashed potatoes tonight. You can handle that, right?"
"You betcha!" I replied enthusiastically. And, as it turned out, a trifle too optimistically.
But I'll continue with that particular story another day.
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