My Lonely City

So my dad – who now has thirty – thirty! – pins in his leg – will not be driving for a while. Obviously. And when he does, a standard transmission is pretty much out of the question at least at first. Well, of course that’s what his car, a 2004 Ford Focus, is. My Taurus – which was a gift from him four years ago – is not. So … to make a long story short … shorter, anyway … we’re trading. And I drove it home today. To place this experience in context, you should know that I haven’t driven a standard for around five years, and that was either the one time my Dad “taught” me how by letting me embarrass myself trying to drive his sports car or my multiple but extremely brief experiences driving the curmudgeonly old ‘76 pickup (with the hole in the grill from when one of my grandfather’s mules kicked it before Grandpa hauled it down from Wyoming and foisted it on us) around our place. I do like the Focus. It’s small and red – I like red – and generally unassuming. Its headlights look like it’s had one too many facelifts, I’ll admit, but … well, it’s a cute, little, red hatchback. My parents had a similar one when I was growing up, so maybe it reminds me of good memories involving songs from The Lion King. Whatever.

So I drove the squirt – that is, the Focus – home today. Today is Saturday. Saturdays in college towns – in February – mean basketball games. And basketball games? Mean traffic from hell. You know how the most difficult part about driving a standard is starting again once you’ve come to a full stop?

Yeah. I’ve gotten plenty of practice in that now.

And to add to it, I had to pee. Really, really, bad. I actually stopped at a Starbucks – I figured, cleaner restrooms, and I’ve given them enough of my cash they owe me – on my way home.

Then I collapsed on the couch and enjoyed the sensation of not moving. Yee! I did it! And nobody died! Not even that one asshole who honked at me.

But if I meet him again and I’m in the truck, he’d better run.