Wednesday, August 19, 2009

It Was All Pilot Man's Fault

It really was all Pilot Man's fault. It wasn't really my fault at all. I have always maintained this and I always will. It's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

This is the floor in my parents garage. Deb, why is there a barrier that is bolted to the floor in the garage? Is there something that we should know? Some memory that should be shared? Some self-humiliation that just has to come out.
And why is there a hole in the wall of the garage, a hole that is suspiciously shaped like a car bumper? Well, how observant you are. I will share the story if I must but don't say that I didn't warn you.

So, I am a tad older than Pilot Man. 18 months separates us. That means that I had my driver's license before he did much to his dismay. You see, my brother was born to drive. He gets to drive planes now but he has been driving anything with wheels for as long as I can remember.

When we were really little we would "drive" with Auntie Jane. She would take us over to the church parking lot, let us sit on her lap and then we would drive around. She would work the pedals and we would work the steering wheel. Not my thing but oh man, did Pilot Man have it down, his little skinny left arm out the window, right hand casually draped on the wheel, looking all cool and, "Hey lady want a ride." A seven year old with attitude.

When he was older it was the tractor at the cottage, or the car in controlled circumstances. He wanted to drive, he yearned to drive, he obsessed to drive. He talked me into letting him drive.....and that was my big mistake. You see, I love my little brother. He pleaded, he begged, he groveled. Well, not really. He just asked if he could drive and I said yes.

Now, I have to back track and tell you that at that time - pre multiple renovations - my parents kitchen window looked out onto the street that ran by our house, the street that we would have to drive up in order to get to the driveway and the garage.

So, the scene is set. My brother and I have taken the station wagon (a REAL chick mobile I might add) somewhere. Once we had moved out of range of the all seeing "Mom eye" we switched places and I let Pilot Man drive. I know, I know it wasn't a good idea. We were 15 and 16 for the love of Pete. We didn't have any ability to make critical thinking decisions. Lighten up.

Where was I? Oh yes. So, Pilot Man was driving when he didn't have a valid license (or any license for that matter) and it was raining. The rain was the key to my downfall and ridicule at the hands of my loving family. So, about a block before we got home we stopped the car and changed places again. You see, it was about dinner time and mom would have been at the kitchen sink, looking out the window and she would have seen if Pilot Man was driving. Yes, I know it was dark and it was raining but she would have seen. I PROMISE you. I drove sedately up the street, made the turn into the driveway, lined up to pull into the garage and started forward. I was almost all the way in when.....disaster struck. My shoes were wet, you see, because I had to get out of the car to change places with my brother....and my foot slipped off the brake onto the gas pedal.....and the car shot forward like the start of the Indianapolis 500. The green flag was out, the car accelerated.....and abruptly met the wall ahead.

When a car that is moving meets a wall that is not there is a loud sound. There is a loud sound especially if the car has enough force to not only penetrate the dry wall but crack the bricks on the other side. Yes, there is a loud sound and then there is silence. That silence that comes as the clouds of drywall dust settle and you take a moment to go, "Uh, did I just hit that wall there and what the heck happened?" And into that silence, that comforting silence came my brothers voice, saying with more than a little glee I think, "Oh man, Dad's going to KILL you."

I looked at Pilot Man, I got out and looked at the car and the wall, I looked at my father who by this time had come rushing into the garage....and I ran like a screaming banshee up to my room to await the death that must surely come. What I didn't know was that they weren't angry, they were laughing. Yes, they were laughing at me, the turds. They were laughing at my distress and anguish. All because I let my little brother drive the car.

The next day, just to be on the safe side, my father went out and bought two concrete parking barriers and bolted them to the floor of the garage. Just in case mind you, that sort of thing ever happened again. Just in case.

See, it was all Pilot Man's fault and I am sticking to that story.

1 comment:

  1. Oh I totally agree--Pilot Man had a hand in your demise! He oughta fess up. :o)


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