Can I Help You?
"Before each lesson, Willard liked to treat himself to a moment of hateful anticipation."
Willard Fellows clucked his tongue as he parked in front of the next client's house. Students — his students, at least — had no character at all. This morning, Julie Vaughn came out in sweat clothes, as if her driving lesson were some kind of athletic competition. She was lucky it wasn't a criminal trial. Her hand position was atrocious, her turns unacceptable, and on four occasions the chinless, little Aileen Wournos-in-training hopped a curb. It would've been bad enough if the driving school car wasn't in the shop, but Willard had to teach in his Chevy Cavalier today. If he had the authority he deserved, Julie would be in cuffs.
Willard had learned to communicate such feelings without compromising what Tony, the owner of America's Finest Driving School, called the profit motive. A few disgusted sighs here. Some penetrating scowls there. And the most important part, looking at the client gravely at the end and assuring them that they could avoid a conviction for vehicular manslaughter — if they stuck with their lessons, that is. Willard's prognosis had broken Julie, who was already breathing in whimpers after being forced to parallel park. "You... really think so?" she choked out through sickening tears.
According to the clipboard, Willard's next client was Chase Egerton, whose lessons were paid for upfront, at least. Willard exited the driver's side of the car, shaking the wrinkles from his pleated pants as he stood, and lowered himself into the passenger seat. Before each lesson, Willard liked to treat himself to a moment of hateful anticipation. In this, his former life as a photographer proved useful: He could picture Chase's slacker haircut and soda drinker's teeth almost perfectly. Consequently, Willard was surprised when a man who looked old enough to jump off an office building knocked on the window.
"Can I help you?" said Willard.
"Oh boy, I sure hope so," said Chase in the voice of a senior citizen who had fallen and could not get up. "Are you the man from America's Finest?"
Actually getting Chase into the car required more negotiation than Willard was prepared for. Citing a nervous condition, Chase suggested watching Willard drive first before trying it himself. Willard countered that he was a licensed instructor, not a chauffeur. With neither man budging, Willard offered a compromise. Chase would get in the driver's seat immediately but could take as long as he needed to begin. After five minutes of quiet moaning, Chase finally started the engine before hitting a new mental block.
“After five minutes of quiet moaning, Chase finally started the engine.”
"Do you get a lot of students like me?" said Chase. "Am I too old? Is it like a language? I heard that if you don't start learning a language by 18 you can pretty much forget about it."
"Driving isn't anything like a foreign language," said Willard. "Please put the vehicle in drive"
"I took Spanish in high school and, oh brother, was that a disaster. Mrs. Greenwood called me an 'idiota.' I had to look that up."
"Please put the vehicle in drive and circle around the block"
"If you say so," said Chase. He handled the shifter like a live grenade. "Today I barely know 'hola.'"
As the sedan inched forward at the pace of a motorized scooter, Willard traced the path that had brought him to this moment. He remembered the feeling (like the one they talk about in church) when he saw the Ansel Adams print on the day he decided to become an artist. He remembered the sound of his mother's scissors as she clipped out the photo, the first one he ever sold, of the house fire from the newspaper. He remembered the weight of that money in his hand, still not enough for the classes he needed. And he remembered the repulsive smell of the HR man’s hazelnut coffee, 40 years later, when Willard accepted the paper's buyout. Where had it all led, the wrong turns and half-measures and chances not taken? Here, now, not even a driving instructor, but babysitter to a man out of an ad for IBS medicine.
"Maybe you can tell, but I've actually had my permit for a while," said Chase. "I just get so, so self-conscious, you know? I get embarrassed and then embarrassed that I'm embarrassed. But last month I said to myself, 'Chase, you can't keep putting this off, not with mom's condition like it is, you can't.'" (Vague illness, Willard suspected, had stricken many generations of Egertons.) "Who's going to drive to the grocery store? Who's going to pick up the medicines? Not Mom, that's for sure. Yes sir, it's all on me now. That kind of responsibility isn't easy, you understand. Are you a family man, uh, oh gosh, what was your name again? I'm sorry."
"You can call me Mr. Fellows," said Willard. "And no, I'm not."
“Where had it all led, the wrong turns and half-measures and chances not taken?”
Improbably, the sedan neared the end of the block. "Uh-oh, here we go," said Chase. Twenty feet ahead of the stop sign, he slammed on the car's breaks, jolting both men forward in their seats. "Can you remind me what you wanted me to do? I can also get forgetful when I'm embarrassed."
"I asked you to circle around the block. Please take a right turn, and then another right turn, and then a third, and then fourth."
"Four right turns? Wouldn't that just put us back — oh, oh I see. Sorry, it's like I said, I can be a real forgetful sometimes."
With limited instruction, Chase managed to complete the car's journey to the stop sign. He looked left and then right and then both ways down the empty road five or six more times before accelerating straight through the intersection. In his nervousness, Chase had apparently discovered the full functionality of the gas pedal (if not the steering wheel) and was now going 10 miles over the speed limit.
"I asked you to take a right turn," said Willard. "You drove straight. If this were the test, you would have failed."
"Oh boy, I'm really sorry," said Chase. "Do you hate me? I'd hate me right now. In fact, I already do. I really, really hate me right now."
Chase was speeding even faster now. He didn't seem to notice the intersection they were rocketing towards or the traffic light, showing red, that hung above it. Willard searched for the instructor's brake with his foot. It wasn't there, of course. On today, of all days, with this blubbering moron driving, they were in his Cavalier. As they crossed the white line, the light turned green.
"That was a red! It means stop!" shouted Willard.
"Gosh, even a little kid knows that one. 'Red means stop.' I don't know why I thought I could do this. Mom warned me, you know. She said I could do it if I insisted, but, yes sir, no question, it would be like the warehouse job all over again. And it is, it's just like the warehouse. I should probably just die. Wouldn't that just be better for everyone? If I were dead?"
Chase was now weeping. Willard had judged Chase so quickly upon meeting him that he had failed to notice certain additional signs about his student. Chase’s fingernails were filthy, the man hadn't shaven in several days, and his blue eyes, rimmed red, were those of an animal caught in a steel trap. Willard eyed the parking brake between their seats. He saw himself pulling it, the car skidding and flipping over, and then, much later, their crushed bodies being pulled from the wreck. The newspaper had sent him to many such scenes over the years. Willard wasn't angry anymore. He was scared.
“I should probably just die. Wouldn't that just be better for everyone? If I were dead?”
"It's, it's okay," said Willard. "You can do this, Chase. Now, just slow down the car."
At 60 miles per hour, Chase wiped his wet face with a sleeve, narrowly missing a woman crossing the street with her dog. "You... you really think so?" he said. "You think I have it in me?"
"Yes, I do. Let's just start slow. Lift your right foot off the accelerator and start pushing in the one to the left of it, the brake." Chase was hyperventilating, but seemed focussed now. The car blew through a stop sign and then started to slow. "Easy, easy. That's it, you've got it." The car jolted twice and then stopped dead in the middle of the road. Thank God, they were alive. Willard pulled the hand brake before Chase could find a way to change that.
"Oh boy, oh boy, I'm real sorry about that, Mr. Fellows. You're a real hero, you know that? I won't forget what you've done today, I really won't."
"It's fine," said Willard. "And I think you were right, earlier, about letting me drive." Willard unbuckled his seat belt and opened the passenger-side door. He shook the wrinkles from his pleated pants as he stood. Chase got out as well, flashing Willard a strange look as they passed each other by the hood of the car. Both men got in, buckled their seat belts, and closed the doors. Willard then started the car.
"The hand brake's still on," said Chase. "You don't want to drive with that on."
"Yes, yes, of course," said Willard. He pushed it in and turned the car around. As they started the journey back to Chase's house, Willard wiped the sweat off his brow with one hand.
"10 and 2,” said Chase, “your hands are supposed to be there at all times."
"I'm aware."
"Did you check your mirrors? It's real important to know your surroundings. Driving can be pretty dangerous, you know." Willard decided that if he just ignored Chase he might stop. "You wouldn't want to be embarrassed. You better not embarrass me, Chase, I've already had it hard enough. It isn't easy, all that responsibility. That was a stop sign, you have to make a full stop. If this was the test, you would've failed. You can't keep putting this off. If you don't start learning now, you never will."
"Please limit your noise-making," said Willard.
"You have to stick with your lessons," said Chase, who seemed to be looking far away now, past the car and the town and the world both men had no choice left but to live out their lives in. "Keep your eyes on the road. I paid for 10 whole hours and it wasn't cheap. I expect you to use them."
hilarious story