None of this is to say that the law is not very, very stringent here. It is. For example, no matter how much he protests, a student driver in this town must — and the law is clear about this — turn the key in the ignition.
Because she is a nervous Nellie, his mother refuses to ride in the car whenever Sam is driving. That is probably a good thing. As she puts the “drivin’ me nuts here” in
backseat driver, I wish she would refuse to ride in the car when I am driving.
THE HARDEST THING to do when driving, I’ve found, is to think. When I am at the wheel and Sam is in the car, I try to model good driving behavior — which means I am driving worse than I have in my entire life.
Approaching a stop sign, I think about when and how firmly to brake, and so I brake too soon and too hard. On the expressway, I think about the distance between me and the car up ahead and end up getting passed by 18-wheelers and old ladies. While cruising through town, I think about my hand position on the wheel, which I confuse with the old
Chicago song “25 or 6 to 4.”
It’s terrible, thinking and driving. It ought to be against the law.
SAM TURNS THE corner a block from our house. He signals at just the right time, eases off the gas, and pulls smoothly to the curb.
I exhale a sigh and relax.
I say: “Good job.”
He says: “Thanks.”
Psyche says: We made it!
Walking toward the house, Sam hands me the keys. “When,” he asks, “are we going on the highway?”
Psyche says: I’m calm, I’m calm.