A Summer Spent Driving In Tucson Gives The Term 'Hot Rod' A Whole New Meaning.
By Tom Danehy
SCHOOL'S BACK IN session, so I've returned to my normal
schedule of getting up way too early, going to bed way too late,
and doing almost nothing of any consequence in between.
Last week I spent my mornings cleaning the house. When I was
done in the kitchen, you could almost see the counter. Then I
spent my afternoons shuttling back and forth between schools watching
my kids try out for their respective teams.
I don't actually stand there and watch them; that might make
them nervous. Plus, I might be mistaken for one of those idiot
parents I can't stand having around when I'm coaching. I just
walked through the high-school gym once to make sure my daughter
hadn't injured herself or anyone else (again) by diving at something.
Then I took my son his shoes for football practice because he
didn't have a locker yet. I have a message for fathers, gonna-be
fathers, and all those jerks you see on Ricki Lake talkin' about,
"It ain't my kid!"
One of the great moments in a man's life comes when he first
sees his son in a football uniform. Even (or maybe especially)
if his son isn't even five-feet tall yet and the shoulder pads
stick out so far he looks like he's wearing a clothesline pole
under his shirt.
I've learned some important lessons driving all over town these
past couple weeks. One is that it's hot in Tucson in August. I
mean nasty, unrelenting, please-God-just-one-little-breeze hot.
It can make you a bit uncomfortable, and maybe even a little crazy.
Have you ever been driving along on a real hot day and suddenly
find yourself recreating a scene from Good Morning, Vietnam
for the sole entertainment and listening pleasure of yourself?
You're in your sweatbox of a car and suddenly you're Roosevelt
E. Roosevelt, giving Adrian the weather report. "It's hot!
Damn hot!! What fool, were you born on the sun? It's so hot I
saw this little dude in an orange robe burst into flames. Tonight
it's going to be hot and wet. That's nice if you're with a lady,
but it ain't no good if you're in the jungle."
Then you look over and you see that the woman in the next car
is staring at you in fear and disbelief. You do the only thing
you can do. You keep talking, but also start snapping your fingers
like you're going along with a song on the radio.
They never buy it. Never. And yet, still you make the effort.
Part of the problem lies with me. I virtually never use my car
air-conditioner. It still has the original Freon, which, I suppose,
makes me a hero to people living in shacks in Montana who think
that the Freon grab was the first step toward the New World Order.
Yeah, they need Freon to keep those black helicopters flying.
I'd say I've used the air-conditioner in my car maybe 10 times
in five years. I just figure I live in the desert by choice, so
I might as well embrace it.
Besides, it's really creepy to be sweating like a pig, get in
the car and cool down, then get back out and start sweating all
over again. It's like, why bother? Besides, if I did that, the
shock would probably kill my fat behind. They'd find me on the
sidewalk and forensic scientists would be able to read the sweat-stain
salt layers on my shirt like tree rings.
"Lessee, he was sweating here, then he was in his car for
18...no, make it 19 minutes. Then he got out again and walked
north-northwest."
They could probably use a formula combining my weight, the day's
temperature, and the size of the Big Gulp cup in the car to determine
how far I got before the sweat started pouring again.
Another thing I've found is that drivers keep getting worse and
worse. They're less patient, ruder, bolder, and stupider. I think
that when people engage in the "growth debate," they
always seem to leave out what squeezing all the people into this
valley is doing to the roads, the traffic patterns, and people's
driving habits.
It's only about five miles from where we live to the high school.
And yet I'd say that nine times out of 10 that I make that drive,
I see another driver do something not just illegal, but dangerous
and possibly life-threatening to themselves and/or others. And
they do it like it's nothing.
The worst part of the drive is this one-mile stretch of River
between La Canada and Oracle. The average speed on that road is
at least 60 mph; long ago I abandoned any thought of driving at
or around the speed limit of 45. No matter which lane you're in,
people whiz past and scowl at you.
Just the other day, this old granny flew past and flipped me
off. At least I think she was flipping me off. Her arthritis made
it look like she was giving me the "Crip" sign with
her middle finger.
A huge part of the problem is that a vast majority of people
think they're better-than-average drivers. This not only makes
them dangerously bad drivers; it makes them stupid in math, too.
By definition, the majority of drivers are average or below. If
you drink, smoke, and/or use drugs, you're automatically in the
bottom half, so shut up and stay off the road.
My daughter's a junior in high school now, but thankfully she's
still only 15. She won't be driving on her own for a while yet.
Still, I hate having to start every driving lesson with her by
saying, "Remember, all the other drivers out there are a-holes."
I even tried to get her to repeat it, but she's like her mom--she
can't cuss. My beloved wife was well into her 20s before she cussed
for the first time, and then it came out, "I don't give a
Hell!"
I said, "What kind of mess is that? 'I don't give a Hell!'?
All those post-graduate degrees and that's the best you can come
up with? What's next, 'Go to Damn!'?"
She hasn't cussed since, even in traffic. The woman's a saint.
Unlike most of the other drivers, who are...well, you know.
My beloved wife was well into her 20s before she cussed for the
first time, and then it came out, 'I don't give a Hell!'
|