When my boss, Carolyn, offered me the opportunity to get certified to drive a twelve-passenger van for YouthFest next week, I jumped at the chance for obvious reasons.
Alright, there really was no reason for me to want to do it. She asked me. I figured, why not? I had every confidence that I could get that great beast of a van to hug the curves of the Appalachian hills like my Cobalt in no time. And it’d be a fantastic opportunity to hang out with my group of kids on the way to and from the worksites every day.
So, yesterday, Jordan and I drove over to Mount Vernon where I was to meet Charlie for my driving test. I met Charlie about a month ago when he gave me my original set of driving privileges for the Cobalt and the minivan. He’s a salty, middle-aged man with a full head of gray hair and a mustache, and I’d been warned that he’s a tough cookie. At our first meeting, he stood in his black windbreaker, scrutinizing me over a glowing cigarette, not looking particularly happy to be standing in the freezing rain with a girl in a J.Crew blazer and flip flops who didn’t know how to check her own oil. He warmed up to me, though; we chatted about car shows and guns, and I reckon he actually grew tolerant of me (thanks for that, Dad).
He greeted me with a smile - of sorts - when I showed up to commandeer the twelve-passenger van yesterday, saying, “I’m terrible with names. I know you as the Flip Flop Girl.” I’ll take it.
I think the omen I should have heeded was my initial inability to start the thing. I actually had to be shown how to turn the key in the ignition. I should have gotten out, right then and there. But, no.
We were driving for about two minutes, and Charlie told me to head up towards the top of the hill and back over a small bridge in front of one of the CAP offices.
I cast a sidelong glance. “Playing with fire, aren’t we, Charlie?”
“No, no. I trust you.”
I slowly began backing it over the bridge, keeping the bright yellow sides of the concrete in my mirrors. Let the record show that, while backing into parking spaces is CAP policy, I’m absolutely terrible at it. My housemates can attest to this. Every ounce of my energy was focused on not falling off of that bridge.
Charlie’s cell phone rang loudly. We both sort of jumped. Charlie chuckled and said, “Means you hit something.” I laughed nervously as he answered it.
And then I hit the dumpster.
We looked at each other with expressions of shock. Mine incorporated a fair amount of horror. We both jumped out and ran around the back of the van. At first glance, I didn’t see any damage, and I said a quick prayer of thanks. Then Charlie pointed at the taillight. Well, what was left of it.
I can actually hear the collective groan coming down from the Island.
He had me continue driving for about a half hour around town. I did a fair enough job. I even backed up pretty well later on. He concluded that there was nothing wrong with my driving, and proceeded to make excuse upon wonderfully thoughtful excuse for my first little car accident. Alas, upon speaking with the legal representative, he was unable to pass me. He had every intention, though, of re-testing me in the morning and giving me privileges. “Be back here tomorrow at ten,” he said. I headed over to Jordan in the minivan, feeling like I’d just failed a midterm and needing some Mom-like encouragement. We picked wildflowers and got ice cream. Thanks, Jordan :)
Anyway, I got to Mount Vernon at ten o’clock this morning to be greeted by Charlie and Carolyn in the parking lot.
“They’re not going to let you test again,” Carolyn said, as kindly as she could.
“Oh.” I was absolutely mortified.
“It has nothing to do with your driving,” Charlie jumped in.
“Right,” agreed Carolyn. “After your little mishap, they want to take the twelve-passenger van off of the fleet for a while so that they can really determine how safe it is. Nobody’s going to be allowed to drive it.”
I was the first person to test in the twelve-passenger van. Pretty sure I’m the first person to get into an accident during her driving test. This is why we can’t have nice things.
I dragged my feet back to my minivan, feeling oh-so-sorry for myself. I’d had every intention of keeping the broken taillight a sweet little secret between myself and a few people. By next week, I’d be driving that thing like an old pro, and no one would be the wiser. No such luck. I’d have to swallow my pride and reveal the casualty to everyone in the Elderly Services program and in my house. Ugh.
Needing to get some work done, I headed to my office and organized the papers from the nursing students’ visit last week. Then I decided to visit a few of the homes to which we’re bringing YouthFest kids so that I could let them know when we’d be stopping by to turn their domiciles upside down.
On Monday, we’re going to see Maggie. I love Maggie.
I called before leaving Booneville, and she said that she’d be expecting me. I backed into her gravel driveway, now completely paranoid when going anywhere in reverse. Even moonwalking has lost its charm. I let myself into her screened-in porch and tapped on her front door. I received no answer.
I let myself in, looking to her usual spot at the kitchen table. She wasn’t there. All the lights in the front of the house were off. I felt panic start to rise in my chest, but then I heard a small squeaking sound in a back room.
I walked across the kitchen and into the hallway, where I could see Maggie sitting at her sewing machine, concentrating intently on winding a bobbin. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Hey, lady,” I smiled.
She jumped up a little, caught sight of me, then broke into gales of high-pitched laughter. I trotted into the room and hugged her neck. She grasped my arm, laughing into my face, and yelled, “You little booger! Bless your heart!”
And just like that, my day was made beautiful.
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