Driving Me Crazy

part one

Just recently, my Dad asked me if I would drive him out of town to visit an old military friend. I told him of course, but let me check with my wife first. And so I did.

“That’s a good idea,” is what she said. I could use a break, is what she meant. What she didn’t say was I once took a similar trip with my Dad a few years back, and I swore never again.

It was more than a few years ago, and my Dad wanted to travel to another state far, far away. The interesting thing about my Dad was that later in his life he gave up driving... for the most part. As he got older it was my Mom who drove them around more and more, until she was the one who always drove... for the most part. I could understand that. I used to drive for a living, and, after being behind the wheel all day long, it was relaxing to sit in the passenger seat and let my wife deal with the usual gang of idiots on the road.

My Dad would still get behind the wheel whenever he wanted to go someplace and my mother did not. And what happened the last time he ever drove, was why I found myself on this particular road trip with him. At night.

I was on a highway that he couldn’t find on the map. He was a little concerned. That happens when people get older, they worry about a lot of little things.

“Son,” my Dad says, he’s looking out the window. It’s dark. Very dark. Another thing for him to worry about. “Do you know where you’re at?”

“Sure, pop,” I try to reassure him. “We’re just fine. I’m heading east, and I can only drive so far before I drive into the ocean.” Obviously, I’m joking.

“What?” His eyes get big. Real big. “Until you drive into the ocean? I think you’re lost, son. I’ve driven this road many times, and this area does not look familiar.”

He looks out of his window again, into the darkness, and whispers to himself: “I don’t remember this area. Nothing looks familiar, and I know this area. I’ve driven it many times.” To me, he says: “You’re lost.”

“I’m not lost, Dad.”

“I think you’re lost.”

“When you don’t know where you are, and you don’t know how to get where you’re going... that’s when you’re lost. I’m on the right road and heading in the right direction. I’m not lost.”

“Son, I know what lost looks like, and you’re lost.”

I calm myself down-no one can push your buttons like your parents-and then I try to calm my Dad down.

“Relax, Dad. We’re in no hurry, and I’ve got a full tank of gas. Worse case scenario, I have my faithful American Express card in case we have to stop anywhere for the night.”

Dad nods his head at the last part. When a man gets older, he gets slower and slower to pull out his wallet to pay for anything. I’ve gassed up and we’ve eaten, but so far only my Dad’s appetite has made an appearance.

In the meantime, his head is on a swivel, turning left and right, left and right. His eyes all bugged out as he strains to see a landmark, any landmark.

“I don’t remember any of this area,” he says. “Nothing looks familiar. I think we’re on the wrong road. I’ve traveled this road many times, and I’m familiar with the landmarks.”

He forgets I’m looking out the windshield, too. If I can’t see any landmarks, I know he can’t see any landmarks. Apparently, my Dad must have night-vision goggles implanted in his corneas. because...

“Now, that tree over there, I don’t remember it. I also don’t remember any 7/11’s when I drove out this way. I know this area. I think we’re lost.”

“We’re not lost, Dad,” I tell him, and then I try to change the subject. “When did you last drive out this way?”

Dad thinks a bit.

“Hmmm... ahh... drive this way. Now, I was born in 1906 (or was it 1907?). Joined the service. When did I last drive this way? Had to have been 1945, right after the war, and again in 1953 (or was it 1954?). Maybe it was 1954, because I had a ‘54 Chevy. Great car. I drove it back and forth many times.”

I was busy falling asleep, when he suddenly snapped out of his nostalgia. “Hey, I don’t remember a Wal-Mart out here! Now I know you’re lost.”

It was time for drastic measures.

“Hey, look at that!” I say, pointing out my window. He looks out his window.

“Look at what?” he asks.

There was a fish truck passing us on the left, but, in those few seconds, it had moved in front of us, and all that was left of it were two red dots in the distance. I forget the name of the company, but the motto on the side of the truck was: “If It Stinks, We Have It.”

“That’s a funny motto for a company,” I tell him.

“What?”

I tell him again. And then I tell him several times more.

“What?”

It was time for drastic measures...I change the subject again.

“Hey, Dad, what’s that?” I say, pointing out his window this time.

He looks out into the night. A night so black David Chase could have used it to end The Sopranos.

“I don’t know,” my Dad says. “I don’t recognize anything.”