I’m in a parking lot, on the phone with Preppy’s mother. I’m enlisting her aid in some undercover work.“Oh, Topher darlin’, I just don’t know,” she says. “I know his shoe size, I used to know his waist size, but this… I just don’t know.”
“Well, there’s no way I can ask him without him knowing exactly what I’m doing.”
“Just let me think, honey. Okay, I can tell him we’re going through some of his Granddaddy’s things, seein’ if there’s anything he might want, and work it into the conversation. I’ll be real subtle.”
There’s a tap at my window. A humorless, boxy woman stands with a clipboard, looking impatient.
“Gotta go, Mama B. Make me proud.”
I hang up the phone and roll down the window.
“Please turn on your left turn signal,” she says, and I oblige.
I’ve spent a thrilling day at the Department of Driver Services, which was called the DMV the last time I was here. They changed their name, I’m assuming, to distance themselves from the DMV’s less-than-stellar reputation for customer service. Well, they could call themselves the Department of Unicorns and Blowjobs if they wanted to, but they’d still be a big pain in the ass.
I stopped driving several years ago, in part because I lived a block away from work and the hassle just seemed silly, and in part because of my belief, and this is an actual quote, that “Nobody in their right mind would pay $1.75 for gas.”
Silly me. If only I’d known.
So for roughly six years, I’ve walked or caught MARTA, or bummed rides from friends if we were going somewhere out of the ordinary. This worked just fine until our adventure in homelessness last fall, when Preppy and I stayed with friends in Smyrna, and he had to cart me back and forth to Atlanta every day. And he began to go a little crazy, like my mother when she’d tell my sister and me that her name was not “Taxi”. It was then that he suggested it might be convenient if I joined the ranks of licensed drivers once more. I resisted.
“Atlanta drivers are out for blood,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stamina to keep up anymore.”
“I know it’s scary, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re brave and bold and you can do it, now I'm gonna need you to go get your fucking license.”
I want to make something very, very clear: I do not want to drive. The whole image of the open road representing freedom and possibility? It does nothing for me. I don’t think cars are sexy. The whole enterprise just feels unsafe and expensive. But I cannot deny the appeal of a twenty-minute trip home by car, versus two interminable hours on MARTA. Besides, I can still convince Preppy to do most of the driving when we’re together- he just wants the option of not always being behind the wheel, maybe occasionally having a designated driver on a night out. But I know what this will lead to.
So for roughly six years, I’ve walked or caught MARTA, or bummed rides from friends if we were going somewhere out of the ordinary. This worked just fine until our adventure in homelessness last fall, when Preppy and I stayed with friends in Smyrna, and he had to cart me back and forth to Atlanta every day. And he began to go a little crazy, like my mother when she’d tell my sister and me that her name was not “Taxi”. It was then that he suggested it might be convenient if I joined the ranks of licensed drivers once more. I resisted.
“Atlanta drivers are out for blood,” I said. “I don’t know if I have the stamina to keep up anymore.”
“I know it’s scary, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re brave and bold and you can do it, now I'm gonna need you to go get your fucking license.”
I want to make something very, very clear: I do not want to drive. The whole image of the open road representing freedom and possibility? It does nothing for me. I don’t think cars are sexy. The whole enterprise just feels unsafe and expensive. But I cannot deny the appeal of a twenty-minute trip home by car, versus two interminable hours on MARTA. Besides, I can still convince Preppy to do most of the driving when we’re together- he just wants the option of not always being behind the wheel, maybe occasionally having a designated driver on a night out. But I know what this will lead to.
I’ll get the license, and then I’ll end up getting a car. And then I’ll have insurance to deal with, plus gas, which I think is like sixteen bucks a gallon now.
I can stress about it, or I can go with the flow. It’s a small concession I’m more than willing to make if it removes a little hassle from Preppy’s life. And that’s how I choose to view it: I’m in the car with this very stern woman, attempting to parallel park without wetting myself, as a gift to the boy I love.
That night, as I stare in slight disbelief at my driver’s license, my phone rings. It’s Preppy’s Mama.
“His ring size is ten and a half,” she says, delighted. “Did you already pick it out?”
“I saved a picture of it on my computer. I look at it ten times a day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. But we did just buy a house together, so I feel like it’s a safe bet, you know? I guess tomorrow I’ll drive over and get it.”
“Aw, you’ll DRIVE. That’s exciting! Things are certainly changing for you two!”
As I look at the ring with which I plan to propose, I realize Mama B has just made the understatement of the New Year.
I can stress about it, or I can go with the flow. It’s a small concession I’m more than willing to make if it removes a little hassle from Preppy’s life. And that’s how I choose to view it: I’m in the car with this very stern woman, attempting to parallel park without wetting myself, as a gift to the boy I love.
That night, as I stare in slight disbelief at my driver’s license, my phone rings. It’s Preppy’s Mama.
“His ring size is ten and a half,” she says, delighted. “Did you already pick it out?”
“I saved a picture of it on my computer. I look at it ten times a day.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little. But we did just buy a house together, so I feel like it’s a safe bet, you know? I guess tomorrow I’ll drive over and get it.”
“Aw, you’ll DRIVE. That’s exciting! Things are certainly changing for you two!”
As I look at the ring with which I plan to propose, I realize Mama B has just made the understatement of the New Year.
