Old Man Driving

The Guy pretty much always drives when we go anywhere. This has nothing to do with masculine imperative or who dominates whom in the relationship. To be direct about it, he drives because he likes to drive. I do not. In terms of chore distribution, this works out just fine for me; if I could just get him to admit a fondness for cleaning toilets, or washing dishes, or even housecleaning at large -- even laundry -- there would be nothing left to desire in my life. Hope springs eternal, but I'm not holding my breath. It's enough that he drives.

It works out for the best in more than one way. He is fond of driving. I am fond of sleeping. Driving, like a great many tedious things in my life, makes me sleepy. This is not really compatible with safe transportation. I know I've mentioned it before, but I have had complaints from family, friends, and complete strangers that my driving style is not really compatible with peace of mind. My argument is that my style is caused by the sure knowledge that, given enough time on the road, I will eventually start to snore. It behooves me to get my passengers to their destination before that happens. That I speed, tailgate, and generally violate common sense and manners of the road purely for the good of others somehow fails to impress most people who have either driven with me or have seen me drive. I daresay they're privately comforted by my explanations, but it's hidden deep.

On the other hand, the Guy drives well. He drives well enough that the old epithets about Asian drivers don't apply to him. He drives, if you will forgive the comparison, like a European: one who is aware that there are other people on the road and actually concedes their right to long life and continued good health. He steers. I sleep. It's a match made in heaven.

Which is why it was a little disconcerting to realize one day that he was going exactly at the speed limit. On the freeway. In California.

"Oh my God," I said. "What's wrong? Are we breaking down?"

We were, it was true, in the right-hand lane, customarily reserved for semi-trucks and old people. The Guy explained to me that it was an experiment. "I heard on the radio that if you drive at the speed limit, your mileage goes up. I wanted to see if it was for real."

NPR. Damn NPR. I watched cars from the 1940s whiz past us, and checked his speedometer. Still going exactly 60 miles per hour. "Isn't this unsafe?"

"No."

More cars whisked past. A little old woman so shrunken with age, it looked as though her car was an unmanned probe being steered by satellite signals from outer space, got tired of being stuck behind us and pulled into the passing line. A wee, wrinkled little hand gave us the finger as she tooted by.

"So how's your experiment going so far?"

"Pretty good. I'm getting really high mileage. Better than usual."

"Great."

Silence. I watched cows slowly saunter by in the fields bordering the highway. Some of them, I swear to God, passed us. "Aren't you worried about your masculinity?" I asked.

"What?"

"Your masculinity," I articulated carefully. "If you drive so slow. Don't you have to drive fast if you're a man?"

He gave me a baffled look. "No."

"Are you sure? What if you're wrong? What if you have to give back your penis if you drive at this speed? What if we get pulled over--" I was warming to my theme, "--and the cop makes you return your testicles?"

"Just imagine," he enthused. "If everybody in the United States drove at the speed limit, we'd save millions of gallons of gas each year. And what would we lose? There's no proof that driving faster gets you someplace sooner. Look at my mileage! I mean, it's always good, but I'm getting an extra twenty miles per tank!"

"Oh my God," I said desperately. "Go faster, damn you. Go faster." I may sleep during car rides, but I sleep because I am assured that I will reach my destination before grandma. I need the soporific of knowing that somewhere, somehow, even if only by proxy, I am breaking a law in order to attain my objective.

It was a lost cause. The light of liberal fanaticism was burning in the Guy's face. He started talking about comparative mileage and motors and fuel efficiency. Someone passed us in a Hummer, and he began frothing gently, like an agitated espresso machine.

I checked the speedometer. Still at 60. "Damn." I gave up. These are the compromises we must agree to, if we wish to be chauffeured.

I went back to sleep and let him fizz.