Lifemobile

by Jonathan Rintels

  Now I tried to impart Dad’s lessons to his grandson. I taught him the eccentricities of GM’s Powerglide transmission, a primitive two-for-ward speed contraption controlled by a lever extruding from the dashboard. Powerglide had settings for Reverse, Neutral, Drive, and Low, but no Park. “To park the car, you use the foot brake to come to a complete stop, then pull up hard on the parking brake, then put the transmission in Neutral, then turn the key to off,” I instructed Benjy. “Otherwise, the car might roll.”

  “I know, Dad, you’ve told me.” In fact, in the weeks we waited for his medical review, Benjy had relentlessly interrogated me on every possible detail of how to drive our Corvair, soaking everything up with his relentless focus. But, now that he was behind the wheel, I told him everything all over again. I instructed him to pull the manual parking brake lever up to see if he had the strength to lift it all the way to the full position. He grunted, then used two hands, and succeeded. With no power assist, I thought turning the steering wheel might be a challenge when the car was stopped. It wasn’t; he swung it around easily, despite his theatrical grunts, each followed by “I’m okay!” Then, with a big “duh” in his tone, he reminded me, “There’s almost no weight over a Corvair’s front wheels, Dad. That’s why power steering was never offered on a Corvair, even as an option.”

  I taught him the quirky old-school controls of the car: the balky levers for the fan, heat, and defrost; the foot switch for the high-beam headlights; the cryptic GM shorthand on the warning lights—TEMP for overheating engine, PRESS for zero oil pressure, GEN for loss of electric generation, and FAN for the failure of the fan that distributes life-giving air to the air-cooled engine, the light that blazed after our fan belt broke.

  “You gonna park in my field all day and yak, or are you gonna drive?” Kenny shouted, clutching a beer.

  Benjy never heard the taunt; he was concentrating too hard on making lists in his mind to guide him, murmuring them to himself over and over, trying to overcome with preparation and knowledge the challenges that Asperger’s had handed him. He struggled to focus on his driving; he knew he couldn’t silence the random off-topic thoughts racing through his head, but perhaps, with practice and concentration, he would tune them out.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” he said finally. Yet again, we went over the long preflight checklist we’d prepared together. He put his fingers on the Corvair’s tiny key and looked to me; I nodded back that he was cleared for takeoff. He turned the key and the starter engaged—a sharp, whiny throat-clearing screech. Benjy flinched and let go of the key. “Whoopsie,” he said, embarrassed.

  “When I learned on one of these with my father, I did the same thing,” I said. I hoped it was true. I couldn’t remember.

  He went over his list again, then turned the key and cranked the starter until the engine caught. After a hiccup or two, the six cylinders purred for him. He cautiously pulled the transmission handle down to Drive, then with all his might yanked up the parking brake to release it. Cautiously, he lightened up his foot pressure on the brake pedal, and the Corvair inched forward, just as another ’65 Corvair had in a Pentagon parking lot three decades earlier.

  “You’re driving,” I said. “Congratulations.”

  He ignored me, focused fully on the path ahead. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear. Riding the brake, he eased the Corvair around the first orange cone, then steered it toward the second.

  “Is it the best car you’ve ever driven?” I joked.

  “Be quiet, Dad!”

  “Hey, Dale Earnhardt!” razzed Kenny. “Throttle back! Ease off!”

  I dropped my arm below the window where Benjy couldn’t see it and waved Kenny off from any more razzing. He didn’t say another word for the next hour.

  And neither did I, as Benjy gently maneuvered among the safety cones, never coming close to testing the Powerglide’s second gear.

  “He’ll get there,” I could hear Annie saying as we crept along, just as she’d said so many times over the years, usually after I’d grown impatient with Benjy’s deliberateness. “But it’ll be in his own way and at his own speed.”

  I turned back to check the rear seat. And she was there, right beside my father, wearing the new seats belts we’d installed, along for the ride and beaming proudly as Benjy tiptoed the Corvair across Kenny’s field. Of course, I was proud, too. But I was also worried; thanks to the DMV’s amazingly unexpected efficiency, in a month Benjy could be racing. I turned back to Annie and Dad to see what they thought about that, and they had vanished.

  CHAPTER 15

  Befitting his prior service in the Marines, Brad Tripanek stood at attention as I opened our front door to him. Starched shirt and tie, crisply pressed khakis, a clipboard in one hand, he exuded no-nonsense professionalism. He extended his hand to me and delivered a bone-crusher of a shake. “We can teach anyone to drive,” he proudly stated after introductions. Of course, I already knew that; his company’s slogan was plastered all over its website, as well as the side of his car. That’s why I called him.

  I could have taught Benjy to drive. I’d already spent dozens of hours teaching Benjy, using the DMV’s training guide for parents. But Benjy was unique, of course, and I wanted him to have top-quality professional instruction.

  I didn’t tell Brad much in advance about Benjy. After all, if he could teach anyone how to drive, how much did he really need to know? But now that he was here, I realized I should have mentioned a few things. Like not to shake Benjy’s hand too hard.

  “OWWWWWW!” wailed Benjy after Brad delivered his bone-crusher. “You hurt my hand! Why did you do that? My hand is hurt now! I may not be able to grip the steering wheel! I could have several broken bones!”

  “The Marine Death Grip,” kidded Brad, as he sized Benjy up with the “I Don’t Quite Know What’s Different, But There is Definitely Something Different About You” look.

  I explained about Benjy’s Asperger’s. Brad hadn’t heard of it. As Benjy tested his injured right hand by flapping it a few times, Brad apologized, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “I always do this,” Benjy explained about his hand-flapping. “If I couldn’t do it, I would be very tense. You should be more careful.”

  “I certainly will,” promised Brad.

  “The DMV reviewed Benjy’s medical condition and has approved him to drive,” I told Brad. “If he passes the standard road test, of course.” I showed him the DMV letter, and we discussed Benjy’s focus and reaction time.

  “Outstanding briefing,” said Brad. “I understand the tactical situation and the mission, so let’s get started. Benjy, my plan is to drive you over to our office. We have a simulator there. State-of-the-art. We’ll acclimate you to the feel of driving a car, discuss defensive driving theory, prepare for conditions you’ll face in live-action driving, that sort of thing. How does that sound? Does that sound like a good plan that will accomplish our mission of having you get your driver’s license?”

  Benjy agreed it sounded like a good plan.

  “Let me show you our training vehicle.” Brad opened the driver’s door to his car. “First, we’ll drive it around our closed course, then eventually graduate to the open road. I’ll be in the passenger seat, offering guidance as appropriate. If necessary, I can easily assume control of the vehicle. So while it’s completely natural and common for new drivers to be anxious when they first get behind the wheel, there’s nothing to worry about. We are a team, and together we will accomplish our mission of having you get your driver’s license.”

  “We should take the Corvair,” said Benjy. “It doesn’t have a drive-shaft hump in the floor like that car. It has a rear engine and rear-wheel drive, so there is no need for a driveshaft. So the Corvair is a better car to learn to drive in, because you won’t need to reach over a hump to assist me. By the time you do that in your car, I may have caused an accident.”

  “Yes, that is a beautiful antique,” Brad smiled patiently. “But this is our training v
ehicle. We do all our training in this vehicle. I cannot train you in your vehicle.”

  “Has that car ever been recalled by its manufacturer?” Benjy asked.

  “I believe we did take it in,” Brad confessed. “For a non-safety issue. Which has been fixed.”

  Benjy adamantly shook his head. “I want to learn in the Corvair. It’s a better car to learn in.”

  I gently explained that Brad wasn’t saying the Corvair was inferior to his car, that he hadn’t intended to slight the Corvair. Brad was accustomed to training using his vehicle. His company required him to use his vehicle. He simply had to use his vehicle or else he couldn’t teach Benjy.

  Benjy considered it. I thought I’d persuaded him. Then he shook his head. Fundamental principles were at stake. “No, thank you,” he said politely. “The Corvair is a better car to accomplish our mission of having me get my driver’s license. Since I’ll be driving the Corvair, I should learn to drive the Corvair.”

  “Lord knows I’m no fan of Ralph Nader,” said Brad, trying hard to connect with Benjy, and nicely ignoring Benjy’s echoing of his language, which some would’ve taken as mocking. “This was the car he said was unsafe at any speed. Right?”

  The mention of Nader caused Benjy to explain in excruciating detail the difference between the engineering of the Early Model Corvair—wrongly implicated by Nader, he said—and our Late Model, with its highly praised, state-of-the-art four-wheel independent suspension based on a design GM had engineered for the top-of-the-line Corvette.

  “Look,” said Brad, raising his hands in surrender, his patience nearly exhausted. “The problem, Benjy, is our insurance. We’re only covered for injuries and accidents with clients when we use our training vehicle. Because the insurance company knows our vehicle. They don’t know yours. That’s not to disparage your Corvair. My aunt had a Corvair she was very fond of. But I can’t teach you in a vehicle I’m not insured in. You wouldn’t want that either, you’d want me to be insured in case something happened. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” said Benjy.

  “Why not?” asked Brad.

  “Because,” started Benjy, who then, like a slow but steady volcanic eruption, unstoppably spewed hot facts and scalding opinions throughout a speech that began with the fallacies behind Nader’s conclusions, then broadened to include discrimination against people with differences, and climaxed with the unfairness of insurance companies that didn’t appreciate the marvels of the unjustly stigmatized Corvair, the most innovative and best-engineered car in the history of the universe, and the ideal car in which to learn how to drive.

  At this stem-winder’s four-minute mark, all traces of a smile had vanished from Brad’s face. At eight minutes, he checked his watch and looked over to me, pleading for an interruption. Then he cleared his throat. Loudly. Like a locomotive.

  But Benjy did not catch this obvious social cue that practically screamed, “Hey, kid, enough already.” I decided not to intervene; it was obvious that Benjy wouldn’t let Brad teach him how to drive, so why not let him vent? Finally, at the 11-minute mark, as Benjy paused to take a breath, Brad got a word in. “I can’t say I followed all of that, but I certainly appreciate how strongly you hold your opinions. Still, the bottom line here is simple. If I can’t teach you in my vehicle, then I can’t teach you. Period. Over and out.”

  “The side of your car says ‘We can teach anyone,’” Benjy noted. “That’s not true. You’re not teaching me.”

  Brad fixed his glare on Benjy. “We can teach anyone,” he said tersely, “in our car.”

  Benjy fixed his eyes on Brad. “Then it should say, ‘We can teach anyone to drive if they agree to learn to drive in this car.’ Otherwise, it’s not true. My dad says I can be too rigid, but I think it is you who are being too rigid. People are different, so there is not always just one right way to teach something. There should be different teaching strategies for different people.”

  Like others had over the years when Benjy flouted the social niceties and said exactly what he thought, Brad now glared at me as if to ask why wasn’t I stepping in to discipline my son? While my son spouted his extreme, rigid, impolite, asocial, insulting opinions, was I just going to stand there like a bump on a log? What kind of ineffective, impolite, pathetic, passive parent was I, anyway? Don’t I know that bad parenting causes this kind of inappropriate behavior? And that firm discipline—even a good spanking—would eliminate it?

  Over the years, I had in fact apologized many times for Benjy’s socially inappropriate behavior. But I had never agreed that his behavior was caused by bad parenting or lack of discipline. Annie was the best parent any child could possibly have, especially a boy like Benjy. And whenever I was at my most exasperated with Benjy’s behavior, and wondered if maybe firmer discipline would improve it, she would always caution me to take a deep breath and be patient, that I would not change Benjy, he would change me. It was just Asperger’s, and Asperger’s could not be disciplined out of him. And she was right.

  “He’s made several valid points,” I said finally. “I’m sorry if we wasted your time.”

  Exasperated, Brad delivered an even more bone-crushing handshake that left my fingers dangling like overcooked linguine. Then he extended his hand to Benjy. “Good luck to you, young man,” he said.

  Benjy avoided the handshake; instead, he raised his hand and waved. “Bye,” he said. Brad again looked to me as if I had failed as a parent. My throbbing, crumpled hand wished I’d been as socially unconventional as my son.

  With school now over, Benjy made what was for him a momentous decision; he changed his daily schedule. The NASCAR video game was out. Now, starting at sun up, he attacked his math assessment tutorials. Hours later, when he could stand no more math, and I could stand no more work, we drove together to Kenny’s field and practiced the DMV manual’s driving lessons, putt-putting slowly to avoid stirring up dust. Then, as the sun went down, I drove us home, and we both collapsed in bed.

  Near dinnertime one afternoon, as Kenny finished guzzling a beer, he asked me skeptically, “Is he gonna be able to take that act on the road?” It was the 10th straight day that Benjy, driving alone, had spent four hours or longer bobbing and weaving our Corvair through the course of orange cones set around its fellow Vairs in the field. “I mean, I don’t really care if he drives the race, that’s just for laughs. He needs to be safe on the road. You think he will be?”

  It was the first time Kenny had spoken seriously to me. I’d had the same thoughts, of course. According to the DMV training manual, we should have left the safe haven of an empty parking lot for the challenge of the open road days ago. I thought Benjy was ready. He had good command of the car. But he declined. He wanted to take things at his own pace, and his pace was cautious. He preferred driving alone in the field, around and around, back and forth. And the Grand Prix was less than three weeks away.

  “He ever talk about the race?” Kenny asked.

  “Not once since he started driving,” I reported. He’d been so obsessed by the race prior to getting his learner’s permit that I found it strange.

  “That’s good!” Kenny exclaimed. “Maybe he’s deciding he’s not ready yet. Puttin’ aside somethin’ he had his heart set on. For a teenager, that shows responsibility and maturity.” Then he cackled, “Maybe he can teach me some.” Hoisting up another beer from his cooler, he plucked the pull tab, considered it, and left the can unopened. “Heck, maybe he already has,” he said, and replaced the can in the cooler.

  “Can I drive to McDonald’s for lunch?” Benjy asked the next day. “With the top down?” I’d have dropped the top even if he hadn’t asked; it was a spring day that had sneaked into summer—a brilliant, comfortable sun and no shirt-staining humidity. The convertible’s ancient motor reluctantly screeched and whined, even after I greased its gears, but the top eventually came to rest peacefully in its cubby behind the back seat. “Can we put the cover over it now?” Benjy asked. This was a major pai
n that we’d never done before; we had to stretch the crinkly vinyl boot over the retracted convertible top, then press down with our thumbs over 20 balky metal snaps. But when we were done, our art deco Corvair looked ready to lead a parade.

  “What’s the occasion?” I probed, wondering if it had something to do with Lydia.

  “It just looks better this way,” he said.

  “And you’re ready to drive on the highway?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Will we go through the drive-thru window?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I need the experience of driving through the drive-thru window. It’s very narrow and I will be driving through the McDonald’s drive-thru a lot.”

  “I see,” I nodded. Yup—Lydia.

  I offered to back the Corvair out of our narrow driveway into the street, but Benjy wanted to do it himself. His lips moved as he went through his checklist. When he was ready, he turned the key and held it, and the car started eagerly. Again he whispered to himself as he placed his foot on the brake and lifted the transmission lever from N to R, causing a thunk. Then he grunted as he yanked on the parking brake with both hands to release it.

  He tentatively eased the car back to the street, looking both ways, stopping, backing up a foot and then a yard at a time until he rolled across the sidewalk and dipped the back wheels over the driveway apron. Halfway into the street now, he stopped and looked both ways, and then looked both ways again. Whispering more instructions to himself, he carefully lifted his foot from the brake pedal so that the car crept back again as he turned the wheel.

  For the first time, he was driving on the public street. “Excellent,” I said.

  He didn’t hear me; he was silently murmuring through his next list—the Going From Reverse to Forward List. We sat for a minute on the street like a plane waiting for a gate at the terminal. Then he shifted the transmission lever down two stops to D. We inched forward.