Kindness and the 80's

Yesterday I was at the Fox Cities Book Festival working as a door-greeter for the session by Naomi Shibah Nye. She read a poem called "Kindness" and it invoked this memory for me.

I was a teen. I can't remember if I was in High School or already at college. I had a dentist appointment, over on Broadway. I drove myself, in our old Volkswagen bug.

I had started to learn to drive on that bug, but on about the second outing blew out second gear, so Dad had to drive home using only first and third, and repairs ensued. So, I finished learning on our old brown Ford, did my test(s) in that car (two tests, actually, since it took two goes to get all the little details right), and didn't really, comfortably, know how to drive a stick shift. But the bug was what was available, so that's what I was driving.

On that day, to go to my dentist appointment, I was wearing a little outfit, ambitious for me, and so 80's in retrospect that it makes me smile. All one piece, top and little skirt. Big bands of color - white, bright pink and turquoise. The top had a kind of square neck that extended out to make little cap sleeves. It had a kicky, full skirt that was, probably, a little on the short site, definitely well above the knee. There was a drawstring belt at the waist that gathered up the skirt and made it pooch out. It was cute as anything, but kind of attention-drawing, and exposed a bit more arm and leg and feminine shape than I was used to (I was only a few years past the period when I wore my Dad's clothes to school all the time, and my favorite outfit during this period was an oversized grey wool man's overcoat that I'd picked up at Goodwill - I wore it with the sleeves rolled up to show a bit of black silk lining at the cuffs, and it had great big buttons).

I made it to the dentist alright, but the trip home... The only way you could get back was to turn right on Broadway out of the parking lot of the building where the dentist's office was, then make a left across traffic onto a cross street that would take you back over toward my neighborhood.

I chose wrong. I should have gone a few streets further to make the turn. If I'd been in the Ford it would have been fine, but with a clutch it was too ambitious - I pulled over into a left turn lane that was just this side of the crest of a steep hill. To make the turn you only had about a second after the last car popped over the hill and went past, you had to really gun it to get across before another car popped over the hill and sideswiped you. There was a bit of traffic, too, since it was afternoon and early rush hour. I think a car in front of me managed to bridge the gap. I managed to ease the clutch out and get in first gear long enough to take up my position as first in line to make this left turn. A few cars lined up behind me. So, it was on. I was up.

I was cautious, I waited maybe longer than an automatic-transmission-driver would, but I identified a gap and went for it. Slip, lurch, kachunk, die. Killing the engine always made me shake with upsetness anyway. In this pressure situation the shakes kicked in immediately and hard. Deep breath. Wait for one more gap. Clutch out, gun the gas, slip backwards a bit, brakes, die. Agh. Deep breath. One more time.

I can't remember how many times I tried but I killed the engine every single time. In retrospect I was lucky not to lurch out into traffic and then have the car die. I was square in my lane, but there was just no way I could get that car into first gear. I was gasping toward hyperventilation, I was shaking apace, my throat burned and my eyes were moistening.

A face appeared at my driver side window. A Dad. A Dad of somebody. Round, gentle, kindly face, framed by white hair. I rolled down the window and turned my teary, twisted-up face to his. "Do you need some help?" he said, with completely calm kindness and gentleness.

I released a stream of hysterical babbling. "Ican'tgetacrossbecausethey'recomingoverthehillsofast and firstgearandtheclutchandIjustcan't yes, yes, thanks."

He had come from the car behind me, he had put his hazard lights on and got out to walk to my driver's side to help. I'm sure he understood exactly what was happening. I got out of my car and he got in. I tiptoe-ran across the road, in my little outfit, across that lane where the cars had been popping over the hill and coming at me, but on foot it was no problem.

The kindly man, somebody's Dad, drove my car, put it easily into first gear, got it around the corner, pulled to the curb, opened the door and let me back in, all the time calm and smiling and gentle.

"Thank you," I said, in my little 80's girly skirt outfit, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I got back in my car, he'd left it running, and the rest of the trip was all straight lines and either flat or downhill, so I didn't have any other mishaps.

Thank you so much, kindly man, somebody's Dad, for getting out and helping me, a poor little overwelmed girl who was in a bit over her head, with a cute little outfit that was already making her anxious and self-consicous. Thank you for not honking your horn and shaking your fist out the window, and yelling, "Come on! What the fuck!" Whoever you were the Dad of was a very lucky girl indeed, and thank you to her for letting me borrow you to help me through that little crisis of my early driving career.