The Hyperion Chronicles

the Hyperion Chronicles

“They’re coming to take me away, ha ha”

#109 License to Drive

I try to imagine what it must be like for you, my dear Readers, to peruse my Hyperion Chronicles. I imagine you’re stimulated, enlightened, and otherwise a better person for having read it. And yet, I imagine there is some resentment too, for some of you may think, “He’s so perfect. Nothing ever goes wrong for him.” Well, clearly, you haven’t been reading too long, because more strange things happen to me than you could write in a sit-com. However, I do see what you mean. I seem to have all the answers. I seem perfect. You begin to wonder, “Has he ever screwed up?”

Well, friends, tough as it is to believe, I was not always perfect. I do have some skeletons in my closet. So, in the interest of trying to relate to you, my dear-but-imperfect readers, I thought I would tell you about the time I stole a car.

I’ve written about this before—and still firmly believe—that there are dividing times in our lives, sort of B.C./A.D. moments. The first time we experience severe disappointment or loss is one of them; the moment we become “legal” is another. And for most of us, so is the moment when we can drive. As P.J. O’Rourke put it, “It’s the time that separates when kids stop asking where they come from and start refusing to tell you where they are going.” Driving is an essential rite-of-passage for many teenagers. There are many legitimate reasons to drive, like sports and work. But let’s be honest: the main reason children want to drive is to they can get somewhere without parents. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution; these are abstract concepts to a child. Kids learn about them in school, but they don’t have any real practical meaning. Could you imagine pleading the 5^th Amendment (which allows you to remain silent) when your mother starts digging into you for information? As Jason Fox put it, “There is no Constitutional Protection for one’s backside.”

Driving, though, gives teenagers a measure of that independence. They may have curfews, they may be limited by how much gas money they have, and they may have to drive the family wagon, but for a few brief hours on a Friday or Saturday night, they are free; masters of all they survey. Until they come home with bean burrito on the backseat, that is.

For me, driving held a specific purpose. Sure, I wanted to drive places on my own, but I had plenty of friends who were willing to pick me up. And my parents were great about taking me where I needed to go. But there was one thing they couldn’t help me with. I am of course talking about a girl.

And what a girl! I’ll call her “Crystal.” People, I tell you the truth; ever since I’d moved to town a year and a half earlier I’d worshipped this girl—no: this goddess—from afar. She was smart, funny, and she had this laugh…sigh. She had this long blond curly hair that she would sort of half flip when she was laughing…sigh. Sorry, but memories, you know?

Anyway, besides going to Harvard or ruling the world, a young fourteen and fifteen-year old me desired nothing so much as to take this perfect creation out on a date. I’d see her at church, but there was so much competition from other guys there; haters all. I just knew if I could get her alone in a convivial atmosphere she would see how charming, sophisticated, and better than all those other guys I was. Of course, in my “B.C.” stage of driving life (meaning I couldn’t, in case you skipped a couple of paragraphs), any thoughts of dating Crystal were just a pipe dream. But as my 16^th Birthday approached, I nervously brought the subject up, and Crystal said when I had my license, I could take her out.

Oh happy day! [Cue picture of me running through sprinklers with a rainbow in the sky while Hallelujah plays in the background] Those last few months were torture. But, some things happened to me personally around that time, and anyway, I didn’t quite have my license by my birthday.

Of course, I didn’t tell her that. I was so sure I would get it imminently, and it was such a “sure thing,” that I went ahead and told her I had it. I mean, I wasn’t really lying, because I was going to get it any day, right? Upon more mature consideration, I was lying, but if you just could have seen that 4000-watt smile!! Okay: I have no excuse. I was a 16 year old male thinking with my, um, heart, not my head. Tell me you’ve never done it!

In a perfect world, I would have gotten the license before she was the wiser, and we’d be married with three kids by now. Unfortunately, the gods of fate had other ideas. My entire family, all ninety of them (okay, it was only five others, but it felt like ninety), were going away for several days, and leaving one of the cars. Crystal knew about this, because maybe I’d sort of mentioned it, perhaps hoping that after the date she might be too tired to go all the way home and want to sleep at my house. Admittedly I was a moron, but have you ever heard the expression if you want to be rich you have to start acting rich? Same thing. I wanted to be prepared.

So, the time for the family vacation came, and I still didn’t have the license. But this didn’t seem like the end of the world. I would just tell Crystal the truth, swallow my pride, and spend the whole week home alone in my house. Of course if you know me, or you’ve ever met a man, you know that didn’t happen. Through tortured logic that I’m sure involved a lot of Matrices, I convinced myself that since I could drive, it really was okay to take the car. I set the date with Crystal, and I was on my way.

Now, let me break my narrative for a moment to tell you about this car. A 1979 two-tone brown Buick LeSabre, this was one of the heaviest cars ever made. My little sisters couldn’t even close the doors. Once I had a full-size Chevy Cheyenne pick-up truck broadside the passenger side while it was going 45 M.P.H., and I didn’t even know until my friend in the other seat told me. This car was a BEAST! Unfortunately, I didn’t know a whole lot about cars. Like where the gas cap was (foreshadowing!). You see, in Oregon, where I lived, you weren’t allowed to pump your own gas, and it was never something I’d really paid attention to. But, the car had ¾ tank of gas, and I figured that was more than enough.

Crystal lived outside of town, in what we then politely referred to as B.F.E. (And if you don’t know what that means, I ‘m not telling) We’re talking cow country, and as I got further out of town the signs of civilization became more remote. About a mile from her house there was this big double-back curve, with a “suggestion” sign of 25 m.p.h. Normally those signs are written for old people, but this sign meant 25 m.p.h.

I got to Crystal’s house, and talked with her mother and father for a little bit. I can’t believe it now, but it never occurred to me they might ask to see my license, but thank God they didn’t. In a few minutes we were on our way. I was, of course, on my best driving behavior, to impress Crystal and to, of course, not get a ticket. Our planned outing had us driving two towns over to see Basic Instinct. For those of you who don’t remember, this was a controversial mystery/sex thriller. Of course, taking her to a movie that might arouse and scare her at the same time never occurred to me.

Like any gentlemen, I took her to eat first: drive-thru Taco Bell. It was in the line to get food that I casually mentioned how I didn’t have my license yet. [Men: let me take a moment here to clear up a misconception. When women say they want the truth no matter what, they aren’t serious. They don’t want the truth. If they did, they wouldn’t associate with us. They want to be lied to. Don’t disappoint them.] In other words, telling Crystal was not the brightest of ideas I had that day, and that’s saying something. She was…concerned, to put it mildly, and I thought the date might dissolve right there.

Fortunately I survived by explaining that even though I didn’t have my license, I liked her so much and she was so beautiful I couldn’t wait until I was legit. Crystal was mollified. [Men: this brings me to my second piece of advice, straight from Homer Simpson: “When it comes to compliments, women are like ravenous, blood-sucking monsters. They always want more, more more!”]

On the way to the theatre we got lost, of course. Normally, I would have done better, but I didn’t know the town very well, Crystal distracted me, I was trying to make a good impression, etc. I remember we were looking for Globe St., and I asked Crystal which way it was (she was supposed to look for the hard-to-find street signs), and she replied with “This way.” This way? It’s night, I am trying to watch 19 lanes of traffic in a car by myself for the first time, in a city I don’t know, and she tells me to turn “this way”??? I asked her if that was opposed to… and she broke in with “That way.” Crystal swore that all women know the difference between this way and that way. I’ve since found that this is true. Yet another reason why I always get directions from a guy. It’s not that the women would give bad directions; it’s just that they speak a different language.

We finally got there, saints be praised. Again, though, the gods of fate would step in. A week earlier the theatre had let a four-year old boy into see Basic Instinct, and the place had taken a lot of local heat. Consequently they were much more vigilant. I always have looked older, and at 16 I got my ticket without any problem. But Crystal was 15, and if she looked like she might be 18, well, she didn’t look like she might be 25, so they carded her. So, we couldn’t see the movie. Would nothing on this date go right?

With a heavy heart that my well-chosen movie plans were laid to waste, we drove back into my town and saw some idiotic movie at the local theatre. I think it was Blame it on the Bellboy. Needless to say, Crystal did not get scared and need to hold on to me, and the main character was Dudley Moore, so she was not turned on.

After the movie, it was time to go home. I was a little disappointed, but I had made it through the night without any major mishaps, and I was with the most beautiful creature God ever conceived, so life was good. I was mentally congratulating myself for pulling off the evening when we came to that big double-back curve I told you about. I had been going the speed limit, 55 M.P.H., but it was so dark out there I forgot that curve was there and didn’t slow down for it. I slammed on the brakes and we went into a full quadruple spin. Michelle Kwan would have been impressed. The whole time Crystal was screaming, and when we finally stopped we had made it through the curve and were still on the road. Crystal was breathing heavily in the adrenaline rush that happens after a near accident, and her eyes were shining like teacups. Once again I mentally cursed that hater-theatre for denying us Basic Instinct, and cast about for a quiet place to park the car and “talk.” But, it really was dark, and I couldn’t see anything, and we were only a mile from her house, so it wasn’t to be. I took her home, said my goodbyes, and headed home.

Older and wiser, I took that curve coming back at a snail’s pace. But then, I had perhaps my dumbest idea of the night. I had what you would call a “depiphany.” Idiocy struck my brain. It occurred to me that the spin we had made would have laid hellacious skid-marks on the road, and it would be cool to see them. So, I put the car in Reverse and slowly backed up looking for these tracks. Dark as it was, though, I had a had time finding them, and I was so intent on looking at the ground in front of me I didn’t pay enough attention to the road behind me. I heard my back two wheels start to crunch on the side of the road. I knew there wasn’t much gravel before the embankment went down into a ditch, and that was not good. I panicked a bit and got out of there by hitting the gas.

But as luck would have it, I skipped the oh-so-important step of taking the car out of Reverse and putting it into Drive. So, when my gigantic LeSabre sprung into action at the prodding of my foot, it went backwards down into the ditch instead of forwards! Too late I realized my error. I put the car in Drive and tried to get out of the ditch. That only succeeded in embedding me in the ditch. (I was years ahead of CNN) I put the car in Park and got out to push. Of course, pushing an eight-ton car out of a ditch is not the easiest of tasks, and when the vehicle is in Park it’s impossible. What I ended up with was one back wheel buried in the embankment, and one wheel spinning freely, like some prophetic Roulette Wheel.

It was at this point I remembered that I didn’t have a license, and with my luck a helpful police officer would come by to assist me, get a little suspicious…I figured I wouldn’t be driving until I was forty. My only other alternative was to walk back to Crystal’s house, and ask them for help. So, I made that mile-long trek. I was already quite dirty, and it was so blasted dark I kept losing my way on the road and half-falling into the ditch, so by the time I got there, in my little pathetic shirt-and-tie-and-mud ensemble, I was quite a sight.

I also had to prepare a story. I couldn’t very well tell them that I had backed up in the middle of nowhere to see tire tracks I’d made on the way in, almost killing their daughter. So, I told them I braked sharply for a rabbit, and spun into the ditch. Crystal’s mother was very comforting, and her father hooked up his spotlight and winch to his truck, and we all went to rescue my car. With the giant spotlight, the skid-marks were visible, and, you’ll be happy to know, quite impressive. Unfortunately, they were also at least 50 feet from the car. The two women didn’t seem to notice, but I saw Crystal’s dad look from those skid-marks to the car several times, mentally calculating how it could have happened. But he’d been a scared kid once too, I guess, and he never said a word.

We towed the car back to the house and sprayed it off. It looked horrible. By then, I was a mess. I started shaking worse than Bill Clinton hooked up to a lie detector, and I didn’t think I could drive. Crystal’s mom offered me a shot of brandy to calm my nerves, but I could just picture what would happen if I took her up on that, so I declined. Crystal’s dad told me driving would calm me, and he was right. I had no problems on the way home, and I was finally free of this whole ordeal.

Until I looked at the gas gauge. What had started at ¾ full was now 1/8^th. I was pretty sure they would notice that. I should have just driven to a gas station, and let them handle it, but I was still pretty shook up, and didn’t want to take any chances, like pulling into the wrong side. I went around the car in my driveway for ten minutes looking for the little square where the gas went in. Like I said, we didn’t handle this, and I had never paid attention.

Friends, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I tell you the truth: there was no gas cap! Apparently this car went by magic, because I looked for hours and never found a thing.

Well, there was nothing left to do but to wait the rest of the week, and take my medicine when they got home. I figured I’d be grounded for six months, but that had to be better than if I’d met the law. But those gods of fate, perhaps deciding they’d been hard enough on me, had one more trick to pull. The Buick was my mother’s primary car. Up until recently I don’t think she was aware there was a gas gauge (or a speedometer, for that matter), and she never checked it. After a week at the beach neither parent remembered how much gas had been in the car, and if they had suspicions, they kept them to themselves.

So I survived, sort of. My parents never found out (unless, of course, they read this column). As years went on, it did make an amusing story, but I will never forget that harrowing night, with one blunder after another. And the next time you read my illuminating Chronicles and think, “He’s so perfect,” you can remind yourself that even great writers don’t always act that way.

Or this way. I still haven’t figured it out.

Keeping an eye out for rabbits on the road,

Hyperion

April 3, 2003