Life in the pass lane

by RAF KATIGBAK

I’m not sure how it happened, but it did. The moment I got the news was a blur. Time stopped, the world washed away and the only thing left was a slow-motion thud of my heart beating and the rush of blood to my panicked brain. When the man sitting next to me somberly delivered the news, I wanted to scream, “Are you sure? There must have been a mistake! There’s just no way. Not me!” But instead, I just shut up and accepted it.

Later on, I wondered if that whole moment even happened or if it was some kind of vivid dream like when that cop asked me to pose as an assassin and infiltrate the Canadian Nationalist Party because he saw me walking around my house naked with a gun. But when I got the letter a few days later, I knew it was no dream. There it was in black and white: my very own driver’s licence. I can now operate a motorized vehicle with more than two wheels. I can drive a car. Or a van. Or a mobile home. Or any double-axle truck or road tractor with a net mass of less than 4,500 kilos. Huzzah!

But it wasn’t easy. The test itself was nerve-wracking. I was constantly speeding, I cut off a car when I changed lanes and he screeched his brakes to avoid smashing my rear fender, and during the final stages of the exam, the trick I learned for reversing into a parking space completely escaped me and the graceful two-point turn turned into a strange septagram pattern that took so long, the examiner eventually tilted his Oakley shades and gave me a grave look that said, “Are you fucking kidding me?” After I finally wedged the vehicle into place and turned off the ignition, he sighed and said, “Rafael you’ve got to work on a few things…” and proceeded to go through the laundry list of eff-ups I committed during my 20-minute exam. “You need a 75 to pass...” he said finally, “your score is 78. Congratulations.”

I wanted to hug him but I knew, given the circumstances, it would be awkward, then I thought it would be really funny to hug him anyway, and make the hug just a little too long and then make firm circles on his back with my palm. Instead I just gave him a handshake. I passed my driving exam. I am also now counted amongst the many horrible drivers in this province. Congestion, pollution, road rage, threats to pedestrians and cyclists? I can now say that I am part of the problem. Yippee!

Even though I was thrilled to get my licence, I was also slightly bummed. Not just because I could no longer merely be a passenger on future road trips, but mostly because I would miss my driving instructor, L. L. was a portly, 50-something Israeli man with a crown of fuzzy white hair and a puffy face. Every week, he would pick me up and we would spend an hour driving around and talking shit. He’d smoke a pipe and tell me about life back in Israel and I would ask him about relationships. We’d slow down and ogle pretty girls on the street and he’d regale me with wistful tales of his old love affairs with his students back home (women are much older when they get their drivers’ licence in Israel). He’d talk excitedly about his new computer and we’d just joke around about skipping the lesson and going to a strip club instead (we even developed a strip club/car wash concept called Jugz N Sudz that would totally work in Montreal). He always had some pearls of wisdom about relationships and didn’t get mad when I spaced out on one appointment because I was with a girl. L. actually got me into smoking a pipe and we even spent one of my lessons driving to Khanawake to get some smokes and cheap gas. When I finally passed the test, I sent him a text:

Me: Hey L.! I passed! Thanks buddy!
L: Congratulations! Where’s my cigar?
Me: In my pants. Come and get it!
L: I want a real one, not a demo.

You probably don’t realize it, but texting dick jokes to a 55-year-old Israeli man and having him zing you back is probably one of the greater joys in my life. So yes, I did get my licence and I gained the right to swerve recklessly around town, but I also feel that I lost a bro. So here’s to you my friend, wherever you are. Perhaps one day we’ll meet at Jugz N Sudz and I’ll give you that cigar that I owe you. A real one, not a demo.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA