“Soon,” I sighed. “I’m just not ready yet.”
“I read the repair manual. It’s a well-written repair manual.”
“I agree. Clear, concise, well-illustrated. Definite pride of authorship. I tip my professional hat to whoever wrote it.”
“Since it’s so good, it makes replacing the fan belt easy.”
“Do you want to try to replace it?”
“I’m not a mechanic.”
“That makes two of us.”
Since the belt had broken, we had replayed this same conversation at least once a day. But this time, Benjy changed subjects. “Can we go to the DMV? I’m ready to take the written test.”
“What about your homework?” I muttered. “What about preparing for your math assessment?”
“My homework’s done. And after I take the test at the DMV, I can go to James Monroe for more math tutoring. And then we’ll come home and fix the Corvair.”
“In a few days,” I murmured.
“But the race is only two months away. I have to have my learner’s permit for at least one month before I can apply for a driver’s license. I have to have a driver’s license to race. Which means we need to get to the DMV.”
“That’s very good math,” I said. “You should do well on your assessment.” Driver’s license, racing, Corvair repair—it was too much. I returned to my office and pulled my work up over my head to escape.
A few days later, I could resist Benjy no longer and took him to the Department of Motor Vehicles. As we waited our turn in line, he was wired and eager to take the test, which meant that he flapped his hand like he was playing the piano one handed. He also recited some of his favorite scenes from National Treasure, debating with himself whether Riley was Irish or not. The attendant noticed and scrutinized him carefully. “If the applicant has any medical issues, physical or mental,” she explained pointedly once we reached her desk, “those need to be disclosed on the application. A doctor will need to complete a Customer Medical Report and submit it for DMV review. Once that review is complete, the applicant will be notified if he or she is eligible take the written test for a learner’s permit.” The medical review could take anywhere from 10 days to several months.
“Dad, I need to have my license in two months so I can race,” Benjy said urgently once we were back in the Toyota. “We need to submit the medical report.”
“We’ll visit Dr. Stan as soon as he can see us,” I assured Benjy. But I no longer had to worry about Benjy racing; even if we saw Dr. Stan tomorrow, there was no way a legendarily unhurried bureaucracy like the DMV could review Benjy’s medical records quickly enough for him to get his license in time for the race. I rarely had thought of the DMV with gratitude, but now I did; they would be the Bad Guy who denied Benjy his dream of racing—not me.
The first time I’d been in Stan Pollard’s waiting room, I squeezed Annie’s hand so tight that I bruised it. We sat on the sofa watching Benjy march back and forth before the unlighted fireplace, reciting the story of Thomas the Tank Engine, and James, and Percy, and the other engines on the Island of Sodor. What was wrong with a three-year-old doing this, I wondered? Why did the head of his school suggest we have him evaluated? Wasn’t this a good thing, even a blessing? Wasn’t it a sign of genius? So what if he didn’t play with other children?
“Benjy,” I’d interrupted, pointing to the portrait over the mantel. “Know who that is?”
“Mister Jefferson!” Benjy pronounced gleefully. In our slice of Virginia, where Thomas Jefferson had lived and built his two magnificent architectural masterpieces, Monticello and the University of Virginia, his portrait hung everywhere, even at McDonald’s. Benjy knew Jefferson’s mug by heart—and that all locals respectfully called him “Mister.”
“Goodness!” said the astonished receptionist. “What a bright young man!”
“See?” I whispered to Annie. “What was wrong with that? What could be wrong?”
Clean-cut and thin as a coffee stirrer, Dr. Stanley Pollard bounded out of his office to greet us. The doc’s baby face made him look like Doogie Howser, M.D.’s younger brother. “Call me Stan,” he insisted. I squeezed Annie’s hand even tighter—tourniquet tight. He was so young! Too young! But we had no choice; he was new in town, just starting his practice, and thus was the only child psychiatrist within an hour’s drive who could see us.
Stan asked Benjy to play with blocks and other toys, and watched closely when he didn’t. Stan asked him questions about Thomas the Tank Engine, and Milo and Otis. He did a few other tests, I’m sure, but by then I couldn’t see out of my welled-up eyes. Suddenly, the sound of every locomotive on the Island of Sodor roared through my ears, because I could see from Stan’s baby face that he knew Benjy was very different from other children. And that difference was so different that it would have a name—a diagnosis.
Stan told us about Asperger’s and how it was often passed through the male parent’s line. I thought of my own issues with socializing and obsession. I recalled decades earlier overhearing my father tell a friend that I “march to the beat of a different drummer.” I remembered my mother urging me to “go out and play. Make friends. Stop living in your own little world.”
We would eventually get a confirming second opinion. But before we even left Stan’s office, I knew he was right. And so did Annie. In a way, it was a relief. It explained so much. And it wasn’t as if Asperger’s was something that no one had ever dealt with before. It was not a tragedy, and not a cause for mourning. Rather, it was a difference. And it would cause our family to embark on a life’s journey unlike anything we’d envisioned.
Stan ended my reverie as he emerged from his office with Benjy and said to me, “Your turn, Ben. Come on in.” This was odd; I rarely got a turn of my own with Stan. Inside his office, he guided me to a chair. Now, more than a decade and a half after we first met him, he was graying. He wasn’t Doogie Howser’s kid brother anymore. “I just thought I’d check in with you,” he began. “See how life is without Annie.”
“Hard,” I said. Duh.
“You miss her a lot, I know. Do you get out at all?”
“Benjy and I go for drives in the Corvair. When it runs. Which isn’t all that often these days. That’s about it.”
“He couldn’t stop talking about it,” Stan grinned. “He really likes that car.”
“That makes one of us,” I grumbled. “It’s sitting in my driveway, broken. And it got us involved with this character….” I paused to find words to describe Kenny without sounding too judgmental. “He’s a vet. Disabled. I wish I could like him, I really do. But between the beer, and the tobacco chewing, and the hunting, and the hounds, and the language, and the way he mocked Benjy one day—he’s not exactly a role model.”
“Kenny?”
“Kenny,” I affirmed, exhaling a highly judgmental sigh.
“Benjy told me a lot about Kenny. He made a friend. That’s always been a goal, to make friends.”
“But of all the people to make friends with—! And he’s invited Benjy to drive in a car race. That’s why we’re here, because now Benjy wants his driver’s license. And I’m terrified. So if you want to write in your report that he should never drive, that’s just fine by me.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what I am going to write,” said Stan. “I’m going to write that, with his Asperger’s, Benjy’s reaction time and coordination may be slower than some. But that will certainly be more than compensated for by his intense focus on being a safe driver and following the rules of the road, which he’ll memorize and know by heart and never knowingly violate. He’ll never joyride, and he’ll never speed or use a cell phone or text while driving because that’s against the rules and he will always follow the rules to the letter. In my professional opinion, he’ll be one of the safest drivers on the road, certainly safer than almost any other teenager out there. What do you think of that?”
“I think I’d like a second opinion,” I scowled.
Stan smiled, then got se
rious. “He’s growing up, Ben. He wants to find his own way. His own place in a world that isn’t made for him.”
“I know. He tells me that a lot.”
“And that’s a good thing, a very good thing.” Stan stretched his legs. The old Nikes he once wore had long ago been replaced by $300 walking shoes. I’d probably paid for those shoes, thanks to the lousy mental health coverage in our insurance plan. But he was worth it. Benjy loved him. So did I.
“You don’t want to see him leave the nest?” Stan probed.
“Yes, I do. But the problem is that, when Annie and I talked about Benjy living independently, Annie was there. Benjy was always Annie’s department. She was great with him—so patient and understanding and intuitive—and I’m not any of those things, because I’m obsessive, compulsive, and have a dash of Asperger’s myself, probably. But now Benjy is my department and I’m afraid I’ll screw it all up.”
“You’re not giving him or you enough credit. Look, Ben, lots of kids have challenges when they grow up. Lots of parents go through what you’re going through. He’s a responsible young man, more responsible than most that come through this office. It’s just that he’s so different from the crowd.”
I sighed. “But what if he leaves the nest and his wings don’t open? What if one of his differences ends up causing an accident? I can’t be irresponsible. I can’t let him or Annie down. I can’t lose him, Stan, I just can’t.”
“In my professional medical opinion, I think he can drive safely,” Stan said. “So you’re not being irresponsible. But are there guarantees in life? No. Look at what happened to Annie. How many millions get the flu and don’t die? Yet she did. There are no guarantees.”
“That’s not a reason to let him drive. It’s a reason to not let him drive.”
“I think he can drive safely. It’s the other drivers I worry about.”
I slowly conceded. “If the state believes it’s safe for Benjy to drive, who am I to question? But racing? Right after he gets his license?” I shook my head and sighed.
“He told me it’s not really a race,” Stan said. “It sounds more like a fast parade of junkers and clunkers.”
“It’s enough of a race that it scares me.”
“Then tell him that, in your opinion, he shouldn’t race. You’re his parent, it’s your prerogative to say it. But he’s become old enough to make his own decisions. Some of those decisions will be great and some will be less great. Just like any other young adult.”
I sighed again. Loudly. “His goals and ambitions get bigger and bigger at the same time that he’s losing the support and accommodations he had as a child. He desperately wants to find ‘his own place,’ and I just can’t see it. I worry a big fat Reality Check is coming, and it’ll devastate him.”
“In our sessions, when Benjy talks about finding his own place, he doesn’t just mean a place to live away from home. It’s broader than that. It’s that place in this world where he is comfortable, and accepted, and fulfilled, and secure. And Reality Checks are part of finding that place for all kids, not just Benjy. Kids who dream about becoming president or an astronaut are most likely not going to have those dreams come true. Maybe, after a year or two at community college, Benjy’s place will be Wheeler. Maybe it will be his own apartment. Maybe it will be a group home. Maybe you’ll convert your garage to an apartment for him. It could be anything. But there is a special place out there that will fit him, and I believe he’ll find it.”
“I hope so,” I said, without conviction.
“You don’t believe it?” Stan prodded. “Or you don’t want it?”
“I never thought I’d say this, but I’ll miss talking about whether Riley is Irish, or listening to Denny Hamlin lose to the greatest rookie driver in the history of NASCAR, or answering whether the envelope came or not. It all drives me up the wall sometimes. But I’d miss it. I’d miss him. I don’t think I really do want him to go.”
“Benjy will find his place,” Stan smiled. “And you will find yours.”
The next morning, I woke with a start. There was too much silence. For the first day in years, the booming bass from Benjy’s racing game wasn’t rattling the bedposts.
I hopped out of bed and looked inside Benjy’s open bedroom door; he was gone. I took the stairs two at a time and checked the TV room. His video game rocker sat empty. The front door to the house was open. I rushed over, and then I heard through the screen door the familiar drama: For every rookie driver, there’s a first time for everything. This was Benjy Bennett’s first time to try and keep from dying at Talladega. He was now driving a bucking bronco that insisted on turning right, toward the outside wall, wrecking both Hamlin and himself.
He sat behind the wheel of the Corvair, his hands in racing position. He imagined himself driving a bucking bronco. Trying to keep from dying.
“Take your time, DMV,” I thought. “Take your own sweet bureaucratic time.”
CHAPTER 12
“What the hell you drivin’ that unsafe, recalled, boring piece of un-American, rice-burning trash from the people who bombed us at Pearl Harbor for?” Kenny demanded to know. “I ought to kick you off my land. Get yourself a safe car—like a Corvair! Oh wait, you already got a Corvair!” He cackled with glee.
I cringed. “Kenny,” I asked, “do you have to say that in front of my son? He can’t always tell when you’re joking.”
“I ain’t joking,” Kenny said.
“I’m fine,” Benjy said. “I think we should just do our work.”
At Benjy’s insistence, we’d come to Kenny’s to prepare the Deathmobile for the Grand Prix. The late spring sun beat down hot as August. Manny, Moe, and Jack were sniffing and licking me like I was dinner. One of Kenny’s neighbors had just spread poultry manure on his field. As my sinuses imploded, felled by the pungent stench of roasting chicken poo, and I contemplated spending the next few hours with Kenny, the thought occurred to me that I’d rather be elsewhere.
“After we left here the last time, my dad broke the Corvair’s fan belt, and now he’s afraid to try to replace it,” Benjy shared with Kenny. Now, with Kenny certain to tease me over my mechanical ineptitude, I was sure I’d rather be elsewhere.
“Fan belt’s no harder to change than a tire!” Kenny cackled some more. “Oops, well, I see your point, given the tire problem you had.” He chastised me for not laughing hard enough. “C’mon, Big Ben, it’s fun! Lighten up a little! To learn, ya gotta make mistakes. Right?”
“Things are a little tense between the Corvair and me,” I said, tensely. “I’ve put it to the side. I wish you would too.”
Kenny got my hint and backed off the teasing. “Wait’ll ya see this, you’re gonna flip,” he said, rolling himself toward the barn. Benjy offered to push him, and Kenny accepted. The barn was mercifully cooler, but the chicken poo pungency had drifted in. Kenny directed Benjy to push him all the way to the rear, then proudly asked, “Whaddya think?”
“Deathmobile” in jet black graffiti lettering had been spray-painted across the side of the shark Corvair. “We’ll look so awesome, them other cars may just pull off the track and gawk at our awesomeness,” Kenny cackled.
He held up his hand, and Benjy high-fived it. “Yes!” he grinned. “The New Deathmobile!”
I laughed. It was fun. But it was time to pour some necessary cold water on their parade, which seemed doomed to disappointment. “Kenny, there’s still a problem,” I warned. “Benjy will probably not have his driver’s license in time for the race.” I told him that, even if the state approved Benjy to drive, he still wasn’t eligible for a driver’s license until he’d had a learner’s 30 days.
“That’s cuttin’ it close,” said Kenny. “Real close.” He slammed the armrest of his chair. “Shoot.”
“Sorry,” said Benjy.
“Not your fault,” assured Kenny. “You got nothin’ to be sorry for.” He sighed. “I’m lookin’ forward to it, that’s all. I haven’t been out on the track for so long. Ha
ven’t seen my friends. I’ve been so out of it.” His cackle gave way to a deflated scowl. “So do we keep working on the car or do we sit around?”
“We work on the car!” Benjy exclaimed. “Because I should be able to drive under the Americans with Disabilities Act! We can go to court to fight this discrimination! We—”
Kenny held up his hand—Stop!—and Benjy stopped talking on a dime. “If we’re plannin’ on racin’, then, like you said, we got work to do,” he growled, wheeling to the rear of the Deathmobile. “I dropped the engine and started tearing it down. Got the pistons out. Get them for me over on the bench, if you don’t mind, Big Guy.”
Benjy strode ahead, pulled some engine parts off the bench, and brought them to Kenny.
“How’d you know those are the pistons?” Kenny asked, impressed. I wondered the same thing.
“I read the parts catalogs my dad has,” Benjy said. “Are you rebuilding the engine?”
“Yes, sort of—doing as much as we can afford on our budget.”
“To rebuild the engine, you must remember that all Corvairs are over forty years old,” Benjy said, reciting from memory the guidance he’d read in one of the catalogs. “It is important to consider replacing the pistons and cylinder units in a Corvair engine because they are air-cooled. The higher operating temperatures are hard on the aluminum pistons. You should never replace just one piston. If one is bad, the others soon will be. So you should replace all of them on the same side of the engine at the same time. You should also consider new cylinder barrels. Honing and re-ringing will not remedy excessive clearance. Installing an overbore kit, containing new pistons and new precision barrels, is the proper way to address these problems and ensure a successful engine rebuilding project.”
Astonished, Kenny eyed Benjy, then me. I shrugged, having witnessed Benjy’s amazing recall so often. “Wow,” Kenny finally said. “You’re a walking, talking Corvair manual. What else?”
“We recommend that engines with over one hundred thousand miles also get a reground crankshaft and camshaft,” Benjy added.
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