A couple weeks ago, Dillon made a very astute observation from Dillon-land. We were having a riled up argument about Greg’s office, in which I yelled, “It’s Greg’s office, not yours, and anybody can go in there who wants to,” to which Dillon promptly replied, ‘Greg can’t.”
He made a similar observation when we were driving to Trader Joe’s in Greg’s car (very agreeably on that occasion) and as we drove along with nothing but the radio between us, I thought about all the great memories I have of being with my dad in his car, both as passenger and driver.
I learned how to drive in the Ford when I was in high school, and I distinctly remember night drives when he would pick me up from my acting classes at SMC. I would come out of class around 10pm to find Greg leaning against the driver’s side door, sometimes smoking, often just checking out the night sky. He would move around to the passenger side so I could drive home. Once we were at a red light and the green arrow came on, so the left turn lane started to move. I was zoning out and let my foot off the gas too, even though I wasn’t in the turning lane but in the lane to the right (luckily at the head of the line). Once I slammed my foot back on the brake, I sheepishly looked over at Greg and all he said was “Happens to the best of us, Maxie.”
So clearly it was through no fault of my driving buddy that I didn’t get my license until I was in my mid-twenties. Circumstances and reluctance went hand in hand and I made very good friends with public transportation, but when I moved back from New York it was time to get drivin’. Greg took me to the DMV for my test (yes, THREE times before I passed) and had the same chill attitude and supportive neck squeeze ready each time. In retrospect, I admire so much that when I did pass on the third try, his reaction was so understated (as if I wasn’t almost a decade late, as if it wasn't my third try) that I felt even more proud of myself than if he had jumped up and down and sang.
When Greg got sick, he still did most of the driving most of the time. The last time he drove me somewhere, he was backing out of the driveway and said, "Can you check for cars? I can't turn my neck lately." After that we traded seats. December 5th, 2008 was the last time that I drove Greg somewhere in his car. We went to two different Ralph's grocery stores looking for a specific Sinter Klaas present for Sharon that he had in mind. We had to lean against the car for a minute in the parking lot while his head cleared. I was so glad to do that small thing for my father.
From the passenger end, I have a million great memories of Greg driving. This wasn't the Ford, but Dillon went to preschool in Atwater Park, which was a bit of a jaunt. I used to love when Greg and I would listen to the radio and drive over there together. I remember when we heard "Yesterday" on KLOS and Greg told me that Paul had written it for his dead mom.
When he used to take us to Union Station or Dodger Stadium, he would jazz the gas on that big hill up to Temple from Beverly, and Dillon and I would squeal ‘Wheeeeee!” The other way around, I always felt a happy rush when I saw him turn a corner at Union Station or LAX or Bob Hope Airport; that was when I really felt home from San Diego or New York or wherever. Also, I don’t need any parenting expert to tell me that the best conversations with teenagers happen in the car, where it’s impossible and dangerous to talk face-to-face. Side-to-side led to honesty, patience, and empathy – on both ends.
A year ago it made my stomach clench to see Greg’s car in the parking lot at my school, because it reminded me just exactly why it was there and who can’t drive it anymore. Now I’m grateful to be driving Greg’s car because it makes me feel close to my dad. Driving at night, radio blaring, windows cracked, cold California jasmine-scented breezes pouring in….I learned from the best. Thanks, Daddio.
