Old People Drive Like Gangstas
Coordination and reflexes are optional
Jimbo was determined to die as a licensed driver and he lived in my city.
Since your license lasts 30 years in Arizona, you can pass the test when you are a spry lad rockin’ your first midlife crisis and still be driving long past the age of doddering drooling decay.
Jimbo revved out of Far Horizons East retirement community in his gleaming green Buick, blind as a bat. Since the grocery store was only a few blocks away, he drove by touch, like a raccoon examining a new food source.
Or a bowling ball hurled by a drunken tween into a crowd of old ladies.
He only made right turns, until his tires hit the curb, and bumped his way along to Albertsons, until he sensed blue sky, which also felt like a parking lot.
What can we learn from this tale of frightening tomfoolery?
Move to Arizona! They’ll license nearly anyone.
Old people drive like bats outta hell in my gated community. They drive just fast enough to maim, just slow enough to infuriate.
They are not the best drivers, but they are not alone.
Young men don’t drive well, middle-aged women drive like lunatics, and the same goes for teenagers who are all texting. What about those kids too short to see over the steering wheel?
Short kids drive like a**holes!
Delivery drivers suck at driving, and people not delivering things are also a hazard.
In short, our crappy driving stays about the same throughout our lives: terrible and embarrassing. We motor along like semi-trained, unlicensed gorillas.
It’s a good thing only 78% carry loaded guns in our cars.
Old Dead Man’s Curve
Over on DeSoto Boulevard, we have Old Dead Man’s Curve. The last time someone rocketed off this diabolical ribbon of asphalt, it was because he kept driving straight despite the known presence of a big, fat, neon-orange sign reading:
CURVE. 30 MPH.
Someone spotted him walking down the main road, looking sketchy (i.e. walking), and notified the police.
His car had gone 40 feet through the trees and down the cliff but he crawled out of his vehicle, climbed up the 45-degree slope of roots and vines, and began heading for the nearest payphone.
He didn’t have a cell phone, because when he learned to drive they communicated with prayers and yarn.
He survived, unlike the last lady who went over in the rain, maybe because there was no sign back then or maybe she, too, found it more relaxing to drive in a beeline no matter what.
I slow down 100% of the time on Old Dead Man’s Curve to 40, because I was once hurtling ‘round it — before the warning sign — at 45 and I lost traction in dry weather with good tires.
Respect.
Guard rails have been requested and denied by the people who believe it won’t happen to them because they are good drivers.
Confidence Game
Science shows smarter people are less confident because they are more aware of all the knowledge they lack.
By the same token, confident idiots run the world and we have proof since the world is currently a disaster in need of a cleansing zombie apocalypse.
On Perpetual Construction Zone Point, which is hilariously poised on a cliff in the shadow of giant boulders, a rat’s nest of overconfident construction vehicles and cocksure Olds sideswipe each other on a regular basis.
I’ve only been manning the phones at dispatch for three months and so far there’s been a crushed mailbox, an Old run off the road, a backhoe that toppled over, and an inner-city knife fight. Okay, I made that last one up but sometimes scenes from West Side Story intrude in my thoughts.
And yet they come, and they build their bloated mansions with acres of driveway.
And God sees them, and He says, “Let them suffer the perils that accompany a steep and winding driveway.”
The future denizens of Perpetual Construction Zone Point are shoving gold bullion into bulldozing a strip of boulders too small for Barbie’s private jet.
Will the next mudslide suck their million-dollar dream home into the flatlands, or will they launch their BMW off their driveway into outer space where thankfully, we won’t hear their screams?
A Modest Bureaucratic Proposal
I have a dream we shall overcome using a lottery. The unlucky few under 19 or over 70 would get lottery numbers like in that short story about the realities of small-town life.
Hopeful lottery winners will get to take a test with the possibility of a license. They will get tossed atop a stagecoach, dumped into the basket of a hot air balloon, or wedged inside a Grand Prix racing car and be forced to drive, and I use that term loosely, into L.A. during rush hour.
With such testing, we could instantly defeat the twin evils of boring government jobs and unsafe roads!
Due to budgetary constraints and the Patriarchy, I can’t get this idea past the blueprint stage.
The test would evaluate your driving but mostly your worth as a human being by putting you through extreme conditions and my neighborhood is the perfect proving ground and starting line.
The test would take place on a misty, rainy, foggy day during peak deer rutting season, on November 17th or thereabouts.
A representative of the Motor Vehicle Department would bring a clipboard and portable electric shock machine, along with a Starbucks he would enjoy while you get zilch.
Like a pilot strapping into WWII bombers to fly into certain death, you would take 2 shots of tequila before climbing behind the wheel.
The test would last several days to weeks, mostly speeding down country roads that have no signage, but the specific route would be up to the helmeted and padded bureaucrat sitting beside you.
No texting, no food, no drink.
There would be roundabouts and in the backseat, four raccoons fighting over a pizza.
Your goal would be simple: get to L.A., buy a Starbucks and find a public restroom without speeding, forgetting to use your turn signal, or flipping off another driver.
Incompetence: A Memoir of My Life as a Driver
The only way to persuade the mass of idiots to take driving seriously is a high-stakes test.
Losers would hired by the Motor Vehicle Department to give this test and pay for their own helmet and padding and Starbucks drink because this is the new gig economy.
Other failed wannabe drivers might bribe their way into a paper license for a 50cc moped which can’t cause much damage plus reminds everyone of a gentler time in the 1970s when shag carpeting seemed like a good idea.
If you fail this test once — Motor Vehicles, or moped.
If you fail twice, they stamp you on the forehead with a giant scarlet “Q” which stands for nothing in particular but looks freakish and might cause you to get recruited by QAnon or Scientology.
We all know Old people need driving tests but instead, the rich ones like Joe Biden get chauffeurs.
The poor ones get jail sentences and build gasoline-powered bicycles.
The rest of us move to Arizona.
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Jean Campbell is based in Hot Springs, Arkansas. She has been writing on Medium for years. She’s recently published her first novel, Down and Out on the Road South, with Wings ePress.
