White Knuckle Driver

I was on the phone with my latest best friend Etta. She had recently asked me to take her to the airport. As well as my aversion to driving, I hated disappointing people and found it difficult to say no, especially when I thought someone needed me and had taken the opportunity to befriend me. Others who understand friendships much better than I do know there are two favors that will test any friendship, helping a friend move and taking a friend to the airport.

Etta wanted me to take her to the airport. She had just learned her grandmother passed away and the funeral in Denver was in two days. The airport was twenty-five miles from where I lived and major construction was underway the last five miles.

I have always hated driving. I’m sure I was one of only a few teenagers who did not want to get her driver’s license. My parents insisted I take Drivers’ Education and then take the test for my license. I complied. Three weeks after getting my license, I turned onto the road to my house, pulled the steering wheel too hard and slammed into a telephone pole. Airbags were not in cars in the 1970s, so I was lucky that the extent of my injuries was only a broken nose. For the next five decades, I was a white knuckle driver.

Overtime, I limited the scope of my driving to a ten mile radius, remaining on a couple of major roads to get to the grocery store, the gym, and my job. If I couldn’t get to my destination in that limited capacity, I took the bus or called a ride share. Knowing I could not grant my new best friend’s request, I told her the following story:

The decision I made to get on highway that night is so baffling to me.

I don’t exactly when the fog rolled in; when the sky fell. I did not notice it when I left my house and walked over to my car. I sensed the grey, but I did not see it. Well, not at first. As soon as I merged onto the freeway, my windows fogged up. Not just my windshield, but my side mirrors and door windows. I was totally enveloped. I was unable to see and became disoriented. I had to force my clenched right hand from the steering wheel and fumbled on the dashboard for the defroster button.

It was a short entrance ramp and there was no shoulder. I had to merge, but could not see anything. I heard a horn blare as something moved passed me. I heard my knuckles crack under the strain of my hands squeezed tightly on the wheel. I had no choice, I had to merge onto the highway. I took a deep breath and pressed down on the gas pedal. I had anticipated the sound of crushing metal, but all I heard were squealing tires.

Just above my sightline, a small spot formed on the translucent film that covered the windshield. The defroster had finally engaged. I leaned forward and squinted through the growing clear bubble. I saw defused taillights in front of me, I turned on my right turn signal, intent on getting off at the next exit. I felt lights flash over my shoulder and hoped it was a kind driver (if there even is such a person) telling me I could move over to the exit ramp. I made it to the traffic light, which thankfully was red, and was able to open my windows. It was if all the fog had been inside my car and escaped as quickly as it had enveloped me. The light turned green and somehow I made my way home.

I had been less than two miles from my home, but I sat in my driveway as if I had just returned from a long journey. I went inside and took a hot shower; then I made myself a cup of tea. Grateful to be in the comfort and safety of my home, I turned on the television to watch the 11:00 p.m. news.

“It appears the car was trying to avoid another car merging into traffic,” the reporter said. The camera panned over to a small blue car upside down on the median. “The driver was declared dead on the scene,” the reporter said.

I had just been at that very spot, the spot where I had blindly merged into traffic. I felt a lump form in my throat and my hands began to shake. Could it have been me? I wondered. Did anyone witness what had happened? I did not leave my house for the next three days. I waited for the knock on the door from the police, to come and confront me. They never came. I finally convinced myself that I had nothing to do with the fatal car crash—that there had been other cars on the road whose drivers would have reported me. Even after all the time that has passed, I still have a lingering feeling that maybe I was responsible.

I have no regrets about the story I told Etta. She understood now understood why I was such a nervous driver and told me she would make other arrangements, which is just what I wanted her to do. I don’t know how long my latest best friend will be my friend, not after hearing that story. A story that was a total fabrication…well mostly.