Driving With Crazy

Now, I'm not a control freak. I just don’t like being in situations that I can't dictate. There’s a huge difference between the two. You shouldn’t ask a control freak to help you paint your house because they’d want to pick the color. You shouldn’t ask me because, well, I wouldn’t do it.

Painting is second, only to moving, on the “Man, I Know We’re Friends, but I’m Never Helping You Do This Again” list. Moving is the worst, isn’t it? I challenge you to name one fun thing about helping someone move…think about it. You can’t.

The Bonding? - You know, we could watch a football game.
The Exercise? - I’ve never seen floral sofa beds in the gym.

But there’s one situation that I hate not being in control of. Driving a car. Yup, that 3000 lb. piece of steel hurling itself 80 mph on the highway. I pride myself on being a good driver. I use my blinkers, I scan the road for any signs of danger, and I even come to full stops at Stop signs. There are some drivers on the road who obviously have no business having a license. You know the ones who weave in and out of traffic, never use their signals, and decide to text message every person saved in their cell phone while driving with their knee. You know the type. You probably ARE the type.

The sad thing is that I’m very close to two people who fit into that category. One is my roommate Al, and the other is my girlfriend Kris.

I’m going to start with Al, who’s the type of person to look at you in the eyes while talking. Now, that’s a wonderful trait to have. Eye contact is important. It exemplifies confidence, and seriousness. I wish I can do it so easily as he does. But there are times for it. Like during interviews, while talking to children, or while having a romantic dinner. Go head. Look them in the eye. Right in the pupil if you want. But doing it while driving on busy, city streets isn’t the right time for intimate gazing.

Al, while driving a vehicle, and looking at me: “So what you and Kris end up doing last night?”
“Just chilled,” I say while silently praying.
“Word. You know what I did?”
“Yea, you told me earlier this morning.”
“Well, I went to Sneaky’s, and had maaad fun. Had a couple Apple Martini’s, and a Long Island and a brotha was gooood for the night.”
Nervous chuckle. “Ha, that’s crazy.”
Silence. And he finally returns his eyes to the road. I finally exhale.
"Ooooo. I forgot to tell you ---”
“Yo, Al watch the road.”
“I am...But let me finish telling you this story.”
“Fine, but dont hit the old lady.”

To be fair, he does peek at the road every 10 seconds or so.

And just to let you know, I’m not lying when I say I’m scared or nervous when someone else drives. I really am. It really frightens me. Getting into a car accident is one of my biggest fears. Right behind slipping in the shower. Think about it, no one would hear you bust your head because of all the noise from the water. And you’re lying there, semi-conscious like “Damn. That’s what I get for trying to impress people. I should of just took a bird bath by the sink, put on some deodorant, and changed my draws…”

When I’m the passenger in a car, I’m paying more attention to the road than the driver. I’m glancing all over for potential danger. I’m looking out the window for other drivers who may be a threat to my - I mean our safety. I’m like a cat in a room full of flies. My eyes are darting all over the place. But my main responsibility is to help the driver. “WATCH OUT!”
“What? What the hell are you screaming about?!?”
“I see flashing lights 4 blocks away.”

See, I’m there when you need me.

Now I’m going to move on to Kris. Her problem is one that millions of drivers have, but it’s easily cured by purchasing proper neck restraints. She has E. D. B. S. T. O. W. D. That’s short for: Easily Distracted By the Slightest Thing Out the Window Disorder. Just rolls right off your tongue doesn’t it?

Every five seconds I’m telling her, “Beautiful road. Beautiful road.” But she can’t help it. The trees are so pretty. While driving to NYC a few times, I see her constantly looking out her window while driving down the highway…where’s there’s nothing but trees. Oh yea. There’s also those shiny, silver railings.

And if that’s not bad enough, she think she’s “The Wraith” sometimes. You know that 1980’s movie where Charlie Sheen comes back from the dead and has some futuristic-looking car? Well, he first died by being chased off the road by rowdy teens. Then he comes back just to kill them by running them off cliffs. Well, that’s Kris. Minus the being dead part.

But when she gets cut off, she doesn’t just curse and stick up middle fingers like normal people. Her whole persona changes. One day while she was driving, some guy swerved right in front of her for no reason. She barely avoids him and I’m still looking at the guy’s car in disbelief. “Man, that guy is craz--” But then I look over at Kris and suddenly, she’s in a black, leather, one-piece outfit! AND she’s wearing a matching motorcycle helmet like the Wraith. I’m not lying. 80’s rock starts blaring in the background, and she hits the gas. At this point I pee on my thigh.

So she’s flying through traffic trying to catch up to him, and I’m pleading with her to stop. “Kris. C’mon, Kris. He’s not worth it. You gotta slow down.” Have you ever seen a little kid who’s terrified of dogs actually in the same vicinity as one? They’re crying, begging for someone, anyone to take the dog away. All the while, the golden retriever puppy is like, “who, me?” But you hear the desperation and terror in that child’s voice as snot pours from his nose. Well, that was me. I thought I was going to die.

I keep screaming at her to stop. But she doesn’t. She finally reaches his car and, while going 50 mph, gets only inches away from him. We’re gonna die, is all I keep thinking. We are going to die! Where is a slippery bath tub when you need one? And we’re not in a luxury car with sports tuned suspension, and electronic stability control. It’s a ’98 Honda with mismatched tires and no windshield wiper fluid. So for 5 minutes, she’s taunting him. Getting close and backing up, going from side to side, and flashing her high beams. She’s a maniac.

I screamed one last time at her, “Kris stop! I’m not ready to die!” And the helmeted figure just turns to me. I could see my reflection in the visor, and it faded away as she looked at the road again. “Kris. I know you’re in there. Let’s just go home.” Finally, she let off the gas. The music disappeared, and she became a woman again. The Leather one-piece was gone, and I couldn’t be happier. She pulled over, flustered, not knowing what just happened. It was like a WereWolf who went out, ate 3 people, wakes up, and can’t figure out why there’s flesh between his teeth. I told Kris everything that happened, and she could believe it. She started to apologize, but she couldn’t finish because I was trying to choke her.

That entire story was true. EVERY SINGLE, other WORD.

Multiply that story 43 times, and you’d have all my experiences driving with Kris. It seems I’m only safe in a vehicle when I’m driving. I have come to that conclusion. You want to pick me up or something, slide over, cause I’m driving.

Speaking of driving, I’m off. Headed to the auto body shop. Something to do with a snowy road, a hill, and a concrete pillar. That's right, a cat in a room full of flies, my friends.

A cat in a room full of flies.