The Front Seat Of A Weapon

"What is the most deadly mass-produced weapon in the world today?"

He asks the question like it's a totally reasonable way to kick off a seminal rite of passage, one I've been nervous about for months. I take a stab and go for the obvious.

"Um, a car?"

"That's right. You're sitting in it."

"Great." I'm aiming for sarcastic, but my voice shakes. I notice at that moment that Dad has his seatbelt on, which is perhaps the weakest vote of confidence in my new driving skills. He'd usually rather let a car chime, beep, or yell at him for miles than strap in.

"Just an important thing to remember," he says, leaning back in his seat and waiting for me to back out of the driveway. I put the car in drive by accident, nearly hit the Corvette two feet in front of us, and slam on the brakes.

To his credit, he doesn't do more than raise his eyebrows when I sneak a look at him, my face nearly purple with anxious embarrassment.

Bet he's glad he put the seatbelt on, at least.

The first half of our drive together is timid, tepid and uneventful. I keep my hands locked at "ten and two" with a grip that could crush walnuts. I make it around the block a few times, then to the high school. It's empty on this Sunday morning. I carefully coast into the student parking lot, eyeing the giant puddles from a recent rainstorm.

"Okay," Dad says. "Floor it. Right into that puddle." He nods to the small lake that's filled the dips in the ancient asphalt.

"No."

"C'mon, this is important."

"I'll spin out!"

"Yes."

I look to the passenger seat. He's not sitting with one leg braced against the door or white-knuckling the door handle the way my mom would. He looks totally calm. I'm probably about to kill us both, or total the car, or send us into another dimension and he looks...fine.

My first two passes into the puddle fail to make me skid because I'm going too slowly. He stays patient, tells me to circle around the lot again, aim for the puddle, and hit the gas hard. The third time, the brake throbs against my foot, and the wheel jerks.

"Turn with it!" His voice is urgent, insistent, but not angry. Not scared. I turn clumsily into the skid, feeling, for one terrifying moment, like I've run off a cliff before I can feel control settle back into my hands, the car responding.

In retrospect, it's just a little skid, a tiny taste of what it feels like to hit black ice or hydroplane.

But in that moment, the car stops, and my breathing fills the silence. I've sweated through my shirt and I'm sure he can hear my heartbeat. I look to the passenger seat one more time. His hands haven't moved. His posture is still relaxed.

A giddiness comes over me. We're alive. We're alive and I am never going to do that -

"All right," he says calmly. "Do it again."

"No."

"Let's go." It's not a suggestion.

"I can't!"

"You just did."

"I nearly killed us!"

"Then you'd better turn into the skid earlier next time."

I circle the parking lot again and grumble my way into the puddle. This time, the car spins out a little harder, but I'm ready for the kickback, the loss of control.

This time, it's my voice hollering, "Turn with it!"

My voice sounds like his. Clipped, sharp, clear. I obey my own command, bringing the minivan to heel. This time when we stop, I'm grinning.

"A'right," Dad says. "Let's go home."

I drive home with one hand on the wheel and the other hanging out the window.

Twenty years later, I'm in the passenger seat of a beat-up Corolla, telling a newly-permitted seventeen year old to head for the high school parking lot. We've just had a good spring rain, and the lot has some good sized puddles. I keep my hands in my lap, and try not to brace myself against the door, or slam on invisible brakes. But when the kid aims for the puddle and hits the gas on my count, I hear Dad's voice in my head before the words fly out of my mouth.

"Turn with it!"

The kid controls the skid. The car comes to a stop. Water sloshes against the tires.

"Congratulations," I tell the kid. "You just turned the most mass-produced weapon in the world into a lifeboat."

The kid nods, panting in a not-unfamiliar way.

"Now do it again."