When the only car in your family is a big black hearse, you learn not to complain about having to drive it.
"Would you rather sit in the back?" Dad said.
"At least there is a car for you to learn on," Mom said. "Some kids only get the cars at driver's ed."
When the only car in your family is a hearse, you learn not to complain about the bulk or the smell. Instead, you learn to drive.
The hearse itself was not the only nightmare about learning to drive. My older friends told me horror stories about the nasty, strict DMV lady who evaluates your driving test. They said she stank and spat and tsked every time you made a mistake.
"She's like the Wicked Witch of the DMV," they said.
"Oh yeah?" I said, feeling a strange sense of pride suddenly. "I think the Wicked Witch will meet her match."
You should have seen the look on her face when I took her out for my driving test. She sat with such pallid stillness in the passenger's seat that she didn't notice when I drifted across a lane or rolled through a stop sign. I passed with flying colors; she just passed out.
I don't complain anymore. I drive my hearse with pride.
No comments:
Post a Comment