by Ann Mauren
She must have been expecting that reaction because she quickly assured me, “We’ll be all alone except for the grounds keeper. No worries.”
Like I might be worried she would take me there on race day to test my newfound driving skills at 250 miles an hour!
Truthfully, I don’t really know what I was worried about. I pretty much knew how to drive now. Some unnamed fear was still trying to break through my consciousness. I turned the volume down on my mind and concentrated on the sound of the engine, imagining its sound with my foot holding the gas pedal all the way down…
We drove through the parking lot and up to the stadium. There was an older gentleman in some kind of heavily patched neon colored jumpsuit standing outside the gate that led under the stands and onto the track. Without a word he opened the gate and waved us through. We never saw him again.
We made our way slowly through an underpass that was carved out of the stands, pulling out onto the track and into the bright sunshine on the other side.
I knew better than to bring this up, but I hadn’t gotten all the perversity out of my system yet, and I needed a distraction from the intense nervousness I felt about being in a car like this in a place like this. So I dove in and asked, “Lidia, is the owner of this vehicle a middle aged man, by chance?”
She looked at me like I’d grown another head. When she recovered, instead of answering the question she asked, “Why would you ask me that?”
“Well, I thought that Corvettes were the official car of the male mid-life crisis. If you actually own this car, then it’s just you and Malibu Barbie breaking the trend.”
I kept my expression serious.
“Malibu Barbie?” she asked.
Now I must have been sprouting antennae.
“Don’t they have Barbies in Italy?” I prompted.
“You mean Barbie dolls?” and she did the hand gesture for Barbie’s figure, making certain, I suppose.
“Yes. Well you know what she drives, right?”
I was still all seriousness.
Lidia shook her head, though I wasn’t sure if it was in answer to my question or a general physical manifestation of her internal thoughts about my sanity.
“She drives a hot pink Corvette. And she’s the only other girl, or person under 40, that I’ve ever seen behind the wheel of one. So you’re a bit of a rarity, you know; if it’s yours.”
I couldn’t hold back the smile now, so I had to turn away.
She was obviously married. She wore the largest diamond I had ever seen outside of a jewelry store window and it was flanked by a burst of sapphires, which were probably more costly than the diamond. It was a stunningly beautiful and unique piece, and it seemed like the person who gave it to her must have been trying to match the ring with the girl. He’d definitely gotten it right.
I was just curious if she was borrowing his car today, or if she’d acquired it before she’d met him. I was certain of the answer, though, and I was starting to regret having asked.
This is why it’s better when I don’t speak, I reminded myself.
It seemed like my savoir fair mentor didn’t know where to take it from there, so I helped her out by explaining myself more clearly.
“I’m just worried that I’ll be crashing this car today, and I wonder who I’m going to be an indentured servant to for the rest of my life. So given what I know about Corvette owners, I thought I’d better ask.”
The explanation for my bazaar line of questioning seemed to release the mental pressure that had been building inside her head. She gave me that therapeutic reassuring smile she was so good at and patted my hand.
“No worries, Bambina.”
Then she slammed on the accelerator and threw me back in my seat like we were launching to the moon.
I couldn’t believe how much force and speed I was experiencing. It was far, far more intense than any amusement park attraction I’d ever been forced into riding. I hated roller coasters with a passion, but my dad, Hoyt and grandpa all loved them, therefore I’d been goaded into my fair share of G force experiences. This blew them all away.
The very best part was that the person in control, making it happen, was a lady! I absolutely loved heroines! I’d wanted to be one when I grew up. Of course, as I got older I realized that I was more of the distressed-out damsel type. Just knowing a heroine was going to have to be good enough for me. And this moment, in this amazing car, at this amazing place with this amazing lady, was better than any heroine fantasy I could have ever dreamed up on my own.
I was afraid to look at the speedometer but I did any way. On the straightaway we topped out at 210 mph. I knew the car could go faster than that; maybe she was taking it easy, you know, for safety reasons. At any rate, as soon as I got behind the wheel, I was driving so slowly, it felt like we were moving backwards.
We covered all the aspects of the driving test I’d be taking at the DMV. When I had performed all the maneuvers to her satisfaction, some on the first try, some several tries down the line, she pronounced me test worthy. To celebrate, she suggested that I try my hand at speeding, but only if I promised that this would be the last time I’d ever do it. I solemnly agreed and then mashed on the gas. I could only bear to go up around 100 and then I chickened out. There was no reproach in Lidia’s eyes for me, just quiet, radiating confidence. It was the most amazing experience of my life, and I knew in my heart that Green Light Driving School was not involved in any way. I was more than okay with that.
We were quiet as we headed south on our return to Louisville. We had spent about two hours at the speedway. I realized with a wave of sadness that this was my last day with Lidia. In my mind, I scrambled for some way to continue my association with this incredible real life heroine.
Should I ask her for Italian lessons? She’d probably just suggest that I buy Rosetta Stone. Maybe I could ask her to help me shop for school clothes? That was asking for a makeover, and no matter how much I liked her, I didn’t want to go down that road.
Lidia interrupted my scheming.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and scheduled your test at the DMV for this afternoon. I thought you might like to get it over with…and I’d really like to be there when you get your license.”
I was speechless. Because of that, first I shook my head ‘no’ (I didn’t mind) and then ‘yes’ (I’d like to get it over with and she should take me there).
She smiled and continued, “Afterwards, to celebrate, I thought maybe I’d treat you to a late lunch at Outback,” the Australian Steakhouse, my favorite restaurant.
How did she know that?
This was followed by more enthusiastic affirmative head nodding from me.
Though the ride back to Louisville and to the DMV would be about 90 minutes, I knew that it would be over too quickly. Sure enough it was, and we were pulling in to the crowded lot with a line out the door for everything vehicle related. It was the last day of the month, the preferred day for all ‘day late and dollar short’ types to transact with the State of Kentucky on matters relating to their vehicles and driving privileges.
This would probably change our celebration plans from late lunch to midnight snack. Lidia was unperturbed. She walked past at least 40 people to the end of the counter. The lone male standing behind it had watched her walk in and was on his way to greet her before she came to a stop. She handed him a letter sized envelope, turned and retraced her steps back to me at the end of the line, saying simply, “Let’s go.”
And we did.
She had me take the driver’s side and directed me around to the back of the building. The same gentleman who had accepted the envelope was there to greet us, clipboard in hand. He seemed far happier and congenial than I had imagined someone like him would be. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’d seen Lidia interact with someone and that she probably had that kind of pleasant effect on every male in her path. Or maybe she just got priority treatment as a representative of Green Light Drivin
g School.
Yeah…right.
I took my driver’s test in a cherry red Corvette ZR1 and passed it. I was so relieved when it was over that I nearly fainted. It was funny to contemplate the irony of nearly crashing the car after my driver’s test in the lot of the DMV as opposed to crashing it at the Kentucky Speedway, while intentionally speeding. No harm done, though. I held it together long enough to get us to Outback.
I was feeling pleased and relieved about my accomplishment. Apparently Lidia was too, because she insisted that I keep my newly minted Driver’s License out on the table, and she would return to looking at it from time to time as though it were some priceless and rare baseball card or the Crabby Patty secret recipe.
Finally, I couldn’t resist teasing her and I asked, “Is it really that hard to believe I passed?”
She looked contrite.
“Oh, no! I’m just very proud of you. For someone who’d never driven a car a week ago, you’ve done remarkably well.”
I couldn’t help smiling with pleasure. My hero was proud of me!
“Yeah, well, even though I have my license now, I don’t think I’m the best driver that I know, besides you…yet.”
I let that hang out there, sensing that maybe I’d struck upon the path to more Lidia time…
It worked!
Her eyes looked through me as she considered my comment and how that observation on my part might be remedied.
She responded back with, “You know, we have an advanced course, where we teach defensive driving techniques. Do you think you’d be interested in that?”
Would I ever!
I tried to play it cool, though.
“Sure, but I’ll have to ask my mom; she pays the bills you know.”
In truth, it didn’t matter what it cost or what my mom said—though it would be interesting to see who the check would be made out to—I’d be there with bells on when the time came.
On an impulse I interjected, “But I’m curious. Will we use your husband’s car again, or do I finally get to drive the infamous Hyundai?”
Her eyes flashed with surprise, then something else…respect? I wished. Whatever it was, she smiled hugely, stopping conversation at the next table over, I noticed, and said, “Oh, we’ll take my car…and I promise you Bambina, it’s much better than his.”
It was now exactly one week after I’d emerged victoriously from the vehicle and licensing registrar’s office at the DMV with my shiny new Kentucky Driver’s License. Trevor had just dropped me off from school—because even though I could drive myself, it was still way cooler to be chauffeured by the Goths.
I spied a package by the door as I approached the porch, not quite sure what I was looking at. It was a medium-sized cube shaped box, packaged in wrapping paper the color of bubblegum. Though I had no doubt, I checked the label anyway, just to make sure it was for me.
If I was hoping the contents might reflect the theme of the packaging, I was disappointed, though not for long. What was inside was much better than gum, and it was hilarious!
Tucked neatly inside the box, cushioned and wrapped with what I realized were actual auto club road maps, was an authentic Malibu Barbie Pink Corvette! And sitting in the driver’s seat was a Malibu Skipper.
Wow. Who had I told about that?
My first Barbie was actually a Skipper doll, the younger, shorter kid sister of Barbara Millicent Roberts. I think this was probably because my mom wanted to avoid having to answer any awkward questions about the extreme differences in my body shape (or any female for that matter) and Barbie’s.
Skipper was a hassle-free alternative—still a Barbie, just not as grown up...kind of like me. Except that even compared with a mature version of myself, Skipper’s figure was still better than mine.
As a girl, I had loved my Skipper doll so much that she was my constant companion for a long chapter of my life—the doll-playing chapter, that is. Grandpa picked up on that and had nicknamed me Skipper, in tribute to the doll I resembled.
Inside the Corvette, which was complete with a tiny authentic looking metal Kentucky license plate, was a Skipper wearing sun glasses and a blue NASCAR jumpsuit with the legs rolled up and a tiny, fluffy pink feather tucked into her front pocket (where presumably a wrench might go if Ken were wearing it). She even had a tiny but very real looking bottle of Cherry Coke in her cup-holder. Sitting next to her in the passenger seat was a Frodo Baggins action figure. He fit perfectly, big hairy feet and all. It was funny to look at. Even funnier was the tiny piece of paper taped to his hand with Map Quest driving directions, detailing the quickest route from Malibu to Mordor.
I laughed and then I laughed some more at the notion of Skipper and Frodo together on a road trip.
Whoever sent this seemed to know me very well, but it was an odd combination of components and themes to be able to pair up its origin with any one parent or friend. I had never spoken with Lidia about Lord of the Rings or Skipper, I didn’t dare drink soda in front of my mom, and though Sam shared my love of all things Middle Earth, she was famously anti-Barbie.
Had it been a collaborative effort? That seemed highly unlikely. Well, whatever the origin, the fact that inside information and creative effort had gone into it was obvious and very much appreciated.
I had never been this pleased over a joke. I only wished I knew who the recipient of my adoring gratitude should be.
Chapter 12 – Episode
My feet were cold. It was early February, normally an ugly time of year in Kentucky, compared to other times, that is. But it’s relative, since no matter which season, Kentucky will always be the most beautiful place in the world to me. In winter though, the trees are stripped bare and the nearly constant overcast sky turns everything under it varying shades of gray, albeit blue-gray.
This morning was one of those occasional wonderful exceptions. A snow shower had pushed through during the night, leaving behind a sharp blue sky and a six-inch layer of sparkling fluffy perfection over every exposed surface. The snow trucks with plows and salt hadn’t made it around to our street yet, so the soft and quiet beauty was undisturbed as I gazed out the window.
School was cancelled but I didn’t know that until after I was already up and dressed. I wanted to be angry about the loss of a good sleep in. Couldn’t they have cancelled last night? But I was grateful for the day off.
The snow apparently was worse at the other end of the county because the roads seemed to be okay around our neighborhood. It didn’t stop Mom or Hoyt from heading off to work at their normal times.
Just as the morning news was ending the phone rang. It was Sam wanting to know if I’d like to join in on a sledding expedition to Cherokee Park. I said yes before I thought it through, and then it was too late to back out.
I had reservations because as a young girl I’d seen someone get seriously injured on the very same hill we’d be visiting today—an exceptionally steep slope that was tree-free (except for the bottom, of course) with convenient parking just feet away from the launching point.
With worries about safety and the heavy potential for embarrassment clouding my mind I began to rationalize my presence in the party. What could it be if it wasn’t to risk my life speeding downhill on vehicles with no brakes and steering that was theoretical at best? Maybe I could just hang back and be in charge of the hot chocolate and administer first aid when (not if) it was needed. I began making preparations to fulfill that role by warming a large pot of milk and grabbing the really big box of band-aids. I had it all in order and tucked neatly in my backpack when they pulled in.
I was curious what Goth snow attire would look like. So it was disappointing to approach a car full of relatively normal looking though well bundled kids. Except for the random strings of unnaturally colored hair poking out, there really was no essence of their indoor selves to speak of. Trevor, who was truly scary looking when he was in ‘uniform’, looked completely different, that is to say, appealing, with no makeup or painful looking jewelry
to make him otherwise. I only knew it was him because he was driving and I recognized his car.
As I had suspected from the beginning, he was indeed very handsome when he was normal. I warned myself that I needed to stop staring, but he caught me and let me know by flashing me a wink and a smile. That made me lose focus on my approach and I slipped on an icy patch.
Naturally, I wished it had happened to someone other than me for a variety of reasons, but particularly because it must have looked spectacular—it sure felt that way—and I wished I could have seen it.
One second I was trudging forward, the next I was airborne and sickeningly horizontal with a straight-on view of my boots before I made solid contact with the driveway again. After the deep impact I actually saw stars (or maybe that was just the disturbed snow floating back to earth). At any rate, I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t bear to get up and face the car, which was now full of howling hysterics, about three feet above my head, only slightly muffled by the car’s frame.
Suffering from equal parts mortification and debilitation, I just lay there, pretending to be knocked out. An uncharitably long time passed until finally Trevor eased his door open, which passed over my face by mere inches, and stuck his head out to examine me—working hard to stifle a smile, but not hard enough in my opinion. Then he stepped out over me and helped me first to a sitting and then a standing position. Next he set about removing the crust of snow now clinging to my backside. When he had dusted my rear longer than I could stand, I thanked him and moved out of his reach to reclaim the backpack and take my place in the peanut gallery that was the back seat.
I made the sixth addition to the group and the girls in the back seat squashed up to make room for me, though Trevor’s late model car was made in the era before safety (B.S. as I fondly considered it), when four people could ride comfortably side by side in the back of a sedan, as long as having your own seatbelt wasn’t an issue. The squashing was due mostly to the extra layers of winter wear, not the excess of bodies.
