I Can't Drive 55

Remember those bumper stickers that were popular when some idiot decided that reducing freeway speeds to 55 would save lives? It was a huge fail. Huge. But that's where I'll be during orientation next week. Only our freeways are 65 mph. And I won't even be doing that because I'll be in the morning commute. And the luxury of driving in the car pool lane while I work nights? Won't happen. I have to be to work by the time I am legally allowed to drive in the car pool lane with no one else in the car. Dang!

The new job is promising. I start Monday, full time. The position of Clinical Nurse Supervisor will pay well enough on it's own. I'll also be doing case management and home visits, for even higher per-visit pay. The thing is, I hate traffic.

I mean I really hate traffic. I don't drive the speed limit unless there's a cop on my butt or the kids are in the car. Even then I push it just a little bit. I know every curve in my route and I know where new lanes are coming up. I know where traffic typically slows and I know how to watch all lanes to see who's moving and who's lallygagging. I keep an acute eye on the motorcycles and I know who's coming up fast behind me. The Beloved would beg to differ, but I am a safe driver. Case in point: At the high point in elevation here there is an overpass where CHP's can hide unseen and then swoop down on unsuspecting drivers. And two miles past this point one day, I saw the pretty flashing blue and red lights in my rear view, coming up fast. Behind me. Crap. So I pull over.

First thing the Chippy says is "That's some fancy driving. Where'd you learn to drive like that?" Ummmm...my mom? No, I didn't say that, nor did I tell him the truth. I said that I was on call at so-and-so hospital, flashed my badge at him, and said that there was a trauma waiting in the ER, that's why I was in such a hurry, I'm sorry, I'll slow down. I'll never forget what came next. He said, verbatim, "You sure were in a hurry. I clocked you at 92 and by the time I caught you, you were going 98!" and then "I won't keep you though. You obviously know how to drive. Just get there safely." What the heck? He didn't even ask for my license. And he also didn't ask for my license the next 6 times he pulled me over. Typically, cops don't ticket nurses. They just don't. It's some unwritten rule and I routinely abuse it to the point of obscenity. The next six times he pulled me over it was to chat. Where was I headed that night? Did I know what kind of patients I was getting? Were the 12 hour shifts difficult? Blah, blah blah. He never kept me long, but neither did he ticket me. The last time he pulled me over he'd said that he'd seen me the previous night, but didn't pull me over because I'd been driving the speed limit and he thought that maybe I didn't have time to chat that night. He seemed sad. And I never saw him again after that. I've seen the new guy who sticks out so far on the over pass that the oncoming traffic lights make his light bar glow for all to see for a mile in either direction. I'm glad he's not pulling me over anymore. It was kinda creepy. He could have hauled me in for reckless driving at any one of those stops and impounded my vehicle to boot. Where ever he is, I wish him well, and I eat a doughnut in his honor every time I eat doughnuts.

So where did I learn to drive? From a bank robber. True story. I was 15 and his name was Billy. Ironic, huh? Billy the kid?! At the ripe old age of 34, Billy had already served four terms in the federal penitentiaries of various states for armed bank robbery. Yeah, apparently, federal crimes don't carry the sentences they used to. And that was in 1980! Anyway, Billy took me under his wing when he caught me driving my Youngest Older Brother's bright yellow cop-magnet Ford Bronco, and doing a very poor job of it. He found me at a gas station with utterly zero knowledge of just how to get the gas from the nozzle into the truck. So I had three times a week driving lessons from Billy the bank robber. Wonder if he ever gave up armed robbery for a living? I don't know...haven't seen him in years.

My first education about cars and driving started when I was just 3 years old. My youngest oldest brother was 11. This is where I learned to duck and weave, how to spot an opening and how to "trend" drivers. Skills I use today. Why my Mother let him drive at 11 is beyond me. Likely she didn't know he was driving, or that he owned several cars. It's also more likely that she knew about it and was just too tired to fight him over it. My three older brothers were hellions. Well, maybe not the Middle One, but the Youngest and Oldest to be sure. The Youngest dreamed up crap to pull and the Oldest went along with it. Ironically, he's the one who always got caught, whined that it was the Youngest's idea, got his punishment and then more punishment for going along with the Youngest's stupidity, punishment for not knowing better, punishment for going along with it yet again, etc. The Youngest simply denied having any knowledge of the kerfuffle. Only the Oldest never stopped getting caught, and never stopped going along with the Youngest's shenanigans. He never stopped whining about it either. Back in the day, getting caught driving under aged and without a license earned you a trip to the police station and a call home. As long as he didn't get caught, she didn't have to know about it. And he very seldom got caught, because he had me riding shot gun. He taught me how to spot cops and paid me a dollar for each one I saw. The bonus was five dollars if I saw the cop before he did. By the time I was five, he was paying me so much that he had to modify his reward policy. I got five bucks regardless of my performance for every time we arrived home without having been pulled over. By then he had a license and a long ugly reputation for out running cops. Remember this was back in the day. They didn't have helicopters and if you could pull into your driveway before you were pulled over you were home free. That law has changed.

Another true story, involving The Youngest and The Middle Older Bothers. Yes, I said bothers! They were walking home from school way back in the 60's when RTD buses still rumbled and spewed horrid toxic black fumes. There was one such bus pulled over at a curb while the driver used a pay-phone. They were 12 and 14 at the time ~ certainly old enough to know better, but still young and foolish enough to do it anyway. They hopped on the bus full of afternoon commuters and drove it several miles until they found a spot big enough to park it. Then they put it in park, turned off the key and hopped off. They also should have known better than to congratulate each other while my Mom watched the evening news. I'm just sayin'...

So my driving skills were honed by two criminals. One a fairly successful bank robber, if you knew his ratio of get-aways to getting-caughts. The other my beloved Youngest Older Brother, who was in his own echelon, a terribly successful career criminal. Who is now dead.

Dang, I hope my kids grow up having zero interesting stories to tell about their own childhoods.

Tomorrow we can drive around this town
and let the cops chase us around...
If you don't expect too much from me
you might not be let down...
~The Gin Blossoms
~New Miserable Experience