Driving Class Part Two: A Dream Come True

Being the good best friend that I am, I loaned my more practical, gas efficient car to my buddy Jason while he’s looking for another car (he crashed his), so I’ve been left to drive the Mustang everywhere, which is a blast, because I love driving it, and also a blast in the wallet with gas at $3,000 a gallon (roughly).

On our Saturday lunch break from driving class, I had decided to just sit in my car, roll down the windows, and listen to some tunes while eating a sandwich while all the others went out to nearby restaurants and ate out. When they returned, I looked in my rearview mirror and saw one of them look at my car and then say something in an excited tone to his passenger. I wasn’t sure what, but as I got out and headed back in, I saw one of my ‘classmates’ (if you can even call him that–this is already proving itself to be a joke of a ‘class’) standing by the door, who was quick to say, “That’s a nice car,” along with an agreement from his passenger, another classmate who’s smoking a cigar.

This young guy, who’s an 18 year old senior in high school, proceeds to tell me about how the Mustang is his and his father’s absolute dream car and he’s always wanted to drive one, and that he even got excited when at his day job (he’s one of the tire guys at Discount Tires) he got to move one of the old boxy falling apart 1980’s Mustangs into the bay, saying that, “A Mustang’s a Mustang, and I was just happy to be in one.”

I told him about my car, and we both surprised each other with the knowledge we had of the cars, and he was completely enthralled by the fact that it was a fully option V8 with manual transmission–the gold mine of Mustangs, I suppose. He completely surprised me by asking, “When class is over, even if it’s just down the block and back, can I drive it?”

In retrospect I was at a driving class where people had been pulled over for reckless driving and speeding (his was only speeding like 10 over–I do worse on the drive to work every day), but the glimmer in his eyes said just how much of a dream come true this really would be to him and without a second thought I said, “yeah, sure.”

Sure enough after class I’m on my way to my car and he comes up beside me and asks, “Can I still take it for a drive?” I’m not sure if he thought I would actually let him do it, but I threw him the keys, hopped in the passenger seat, and said ‘Get in.’

He was nervous. I mean, nervous to the point of shaking, like he was in some super car, which oddly made me thankful for what I had when I considered this was my daily driver that I just liked to use to even cruise to King Soopers to pick up a loaf of bread on a nice day. He told me he wasn’t very good at stick shift and I told him not to worry about it. I had him roll down the windows before he started the car and when it did–when the V8 rumbled to life and the Violator Axleback mufflers in the rear grumbled like a giant–I saw his hand shaking a little on the shiftknob.

He backed out slowly and pulled from the parking lot at a slow, creeping speed. This was not a kid who wanted an excuse to tear around in a fast car just to dick around, this was a guy who truly respected not just the vehicle but the name and the history of the car. Then, as he looped around toward the deserted side street, he gave it just the slightest amount of gas and the engine gave a resontant rumble, and we crept down the street at all of 10 mph.

He went up the block, went into another parking lot, and took the corner a little fast. He apologized immediately and told me he didn’t mean to do it, but I just smiled and said, “It handles great, doesn’t it? It’s not just great in a straight line, it’ll handle good around curves, too.” He started to reach the end of the parking lot, and I said, “flip around fast.” He gave it a little gas, turned the wheel, and was in absolute awe when the car slid around in a perfect half circle like it was being held on rails. Now, I’ve taken turns faster than that going onto a side street coming home, but to him it was like a feat of near impossibility. Again, made me realize what I really have.
When we came around the last corner and headed toward the parking lot, I told him, “Go ahead, give this thing some gas. That’s what Ford made these for.” He punched the gas only briefly–the engine snarled to life and the car lurched forward–before he shifted at about 20 mph and slowed down again. He seemed really worried about overdoing it, like it was too much car to handle, and yet as we crept back he told me how it was about the coolest thing anyone’s ever let him do.

We got back to the parking lot by his old, beat up truck, and he asked if he could take pictures of it to put on his Myspace. I told him, “how about I take your camera and take some pictures of you sitting in it, looking like you’re driving it?” I might as well have asked him if he wanted a million dollars and three playboy bunnies; he gave me his camera and I took a couple pics of him inside with the hugest grin on his face. Then he got outside, and proceeded to take pictures of every angle–the front, the back, the side–he took pictures of the interior, even popped the hood and took pictures of the engine, which we chatted about briefly.

Afterwards he thanked me, and really surprised me when he said, “You really made my dream come true. I know it seems stupid, but in my family, Mustangs are like god.”

I know, I know, I’d be lying if I didn’t say my ego swelled up a little bit, but I also was reminded of how grateful I am for everything I have, how hard I worked to earn that car that this young guy was fawning over, and that even if it’s something as small as letting a nervous teenager drive your brand new sports car–not just baby it, but drive it the way it was meant to be driven–making someone’s dream come true has a huge impact on the way you look at things.

When I get home I’ll see if I can find his Myspace and the pics, because I never did get to see how they turned out.

Driving Class Part One: The First Step is Admitting It

I had my driver’s class over the weekend and it was pretty ridiculous. I’ll spare you the ramblings of a teacher that was a cruel marriage of Mr. Rogers and Bob Ross, whose teachings were a verbal backalley abortion, and just say that I wasn’t the only one there for BS reasons. Granted, I sat next to the small Asian girl that ran an old lady off the road after cutting her off and brake checking her, but there was also the 60 year old man who did a California stop at a stop sign in the middle of the night when no one else was around, or the girl that went through a red light on her scooter because the rotation of the light had skipped her 3 times.

I still actively participated and cracked some jokes that got some of the other guys my age to talk to me. They were all nice guys, most of them who had just been pulled over for speeding one too many times. And afterwards, I’m sure that they all left class and sped home (I know I did).

There were, however, also people a little high and mighty, like Janet, the fifty year old woman with greasy blonde hair, coke bottle glasses, and a permanent sneer, looking like someone who belonged more in a labcoat overlooking a mouse with an ear growing out of its back than in a driving school classroom. We started class by going in a circle and telling everyone our names, what we did for a job, and what plans we had for Father’s Day. Not exactly exposé questions here. Well, it came to Janet, and she snapped, “My name is Janet and the rest is personal.”

When we went around a second time and asked what brought us to driving school, every single person gave an answer except for Janet, who didn’t so much as look up, so the teacher skipped her. Maybe she ran a red light, maybe she beat a hooker to death with the hardback novel she was reading the entire time instead of listening or participating in class. I never did find out.

Shortly after, the teacher very nicely reminded us to turn off our cellphones, and Janet immediately says, “I can’t shut off mine. I have a 90 year old Aunt who is not well and I need to keep it on.” The teacher asks if she can put in on vibrate, but Janet says (very firmly, too), “No, I won’t be able to feel it. I’m going to keep it on.” Our teacher, Mr. Rogers/Captain Kangaroo, who has about as much power over our class as a rich yuppie has over her screaming, spoiled brat kids, backs down and says, “Okay, that’s fine.”

The reason I bring that up is because for the second day of class we had to bring in a picture of something that holds value to us. They were all passed around the class, and many others brought pictures of their wives, girlfriends, kids, etc. When it comes to Janet, no one even expects her to participate, but she pulls a big glossy picture out of her purse and murmurs, “I brought a picture of my 90 year old aunt.” The teacher’s eyes grow wide–my goodness, troll-under-the-bridge Janet is actually participating–and she walks over to Janet and exclaims, “Oh, how sweet! Can I take a look a–” and Janet, like a wild dog protecting the last piece of snausage, tucks it back into her purse as quickly as she had pulled it out and snaps, “My aunt wishes her appearance to remain private.”

Seeing as how she hadn’t participated in anything else, I’m amazed she even bothered to bring the picture in if no one else could see it. And as for the picture, if it was just a picture of a 90 year old woman and not Hungarian pornography, who cares? I’ve seen 90 year old people all the time. The minute I saw her aunt’s face, I probably would have already forgotten it.

But being the jackass that I am, it came around me and I said that I had a picture of my dog but my dog wished to remain private. Unfortunately, Janet wasn’t even paying attention, but the other people in class thought it was hilarious.

Afterwards, it was revealed that *gasp–I never saw this coming* those things of value were mentioned in class because they can be RIPPED AWAY FROM US by our horrible driving choices and we should do everything we can to protect them by abiding the laws of the road. It had a profound effect on me; next time I cut off a family of eight and give them the one finger salute, or the next time I brake check a ninety year old man and send his scalding hot latte right onto the penis he hasn’t been able to use in over 40 years anyway, I will think long and hard about my dog, or my family, or maybe even Janet’s 90 year old aunt.

So let me tell you, my brothers and sisters… I have been inside the joint, I have seen the eeeeeevil of my ways, and I have come out a reformed man. Praise be to Jeebus.

I Fail at Life

Sometimes, when trying to sculpt what is and what will become my life, it feels like I’m trying to sculpt the Michaelangelo with Play-Doh. Granted, I could probably make the most kick ass neon green, possibly-edible sculpture you’ve ever seen, but that’s not the point. The point is that I am unlucky and because of my unluckiness my life is a constant failure.

Like at my job. Last year I got an extra $5,000 a year raise which was very sweet and much needed. Then, a month later, it was taken away, and only afterwards were we told about it. We were not warned about this. It was just taken. It’s like walking into a public bathroom, flushing the toilet, and getting hit in the face with toilet water, and only as you walk out do you see a big sign on the back of the door that says ‘Warning, toilet water may hit you in the face.” Frankly, it’s the story of my life.

I also hate authority. I didn’t used to, and I’m not sitting here like James Dean slicking back my hair with a cigarette hanging out of my mouth thinking I’m such a rebel, I just mean that I’ve never had a good experience with them. Ever. In the past 2 years I’ve gotten 3 B.S. tickets that had to go to court. Now granted, I’ve done my fair share of stupid crap, don’t get me wrong, but these were 3 instances where I was doing absolutely nothing wrong. The first one I got pulled over for, the car in front of me was screwing around and squealed its tires, and the cop pulled me over. He didn’t listen to a word I said (both cars were red, that’s the only similarity) and I had to hire a $1000 lawyer just to prove my innocence otherwise I would have lost my license. I’m glad that to prove I did nothing wrong I had spend $1000 of my own money that I can never get back.

The second time I got pulled over it’s because I was driving home in the center lane and a car full of teenagers pulled right out in front of me. I tried to brake, but I never would have made it in time, so I jerked on the wheel and flew into the other lane. Well, a cop saw that and ONLY that, so he pulled me over because he thought I was trying to cut them off. I calmly explained that I wasn’t, but he was a complete dick and would have nothing of it, so he gave me a ticket that I had to take to court. Now, I didn’t have $1000 to spend on this (imagine that), so the best I could do was a meeting with the DA who said that based on me cutting someone off in a fit of rage (as she would not listen to me either, I mean why would anyone listen to me when they can make their own asinine assumptions) said I had to take a class for road rage. In fact, that’s tonight. I have to go on a Friday night and sit around with a bunch of angry caveman chub monkeys because it was either that or spend $1000 I didn’t have to prove myself innocent.

Lastly, I was in Denver a couple weeks back trying to meet up with a group of friends who said they were all in a certain parking lot. I was lost, trying to  find it, and just when I think I found it, I pull in. Only after I pull in do I  notice I’m going the wrong way in, so I pull around, and just as I’m about to leave I get pulled over. I thought I was just going to get a warning, as I explained that I’m lost and I didn’t see a sign until after I went in, which is why I just flipped around to leave, but nope, this guy was a little 98 lb soaking wet prick with little man’s syndrome who did the worst thing of all. Not only did he give me a ticket, but he acted like he was doing me a FAVOR for only giving me a 2 point ticket instead of a 4 pointer because apparently failure to yield to road signs is a 4 point ticket. He also laughed and said  that a lot of people go in the wrong way in that parking lot and that’s why he was sitting there. Gee dumbass, maybe that means people don’t notice it until it’s too late and you should do something about it. But then again, pencil dick has to make his $30,000 a year somehow. God forbid he be down the street stopping one man for shooting another man in a fit of road rage because he took his parking space.

So I’m not mad at pencil dick for doing his job. If I was him spending my Saturday patrolling an empty parking lot I’d probably kill myself or take up homosexuality. But what’s worst is that this is the first time I was ever pulled over in my Mustang, so when someone sees my kickass sports car, and they ask, “So, you ever been pulled over in that thing?” I can’t boast, “Yeah, got pulled over for doing a buck sixty down I-25″ or “Yeah, got pulled over for roasting the tires on a side street.” Nope, I get to say, “Yeah, I got pulled over for going the wrong way in a parking lot.” That may very well be the gayest sentence I’ve ever had to utter in my life.

Lastly, I’m also unlucky in love, because hey, if I can’t be happy in money or with donut munching waste-of-space traffic cops, why should I be happy in true love either?

Women in general ignore me because I am a nice guy. It does not matter that I work out every day and have an attractive physique to show for it, it does not matter that I have a very successful job or my own apartment, it does not matter that I have manners and I’m polite, because I am a nice guy and by default women have decided they must ignore me. On the other hand, if I was an out of shape, out of work, car-less, arrogant douchebag living in his parents’  basement, I could get a girl like nobody’s business. Because they are magically attracted to assholes.

Maybe I should give in and start acting like a complete dick. If you were a Seinfeld watcher in the 90’s like I was, you remember The Summer of George in which George Costanza decides to do the complete opposite of every  natural instinct he has, and because of it he gets a gorgeous girl and a job with the New York Yankees. So from now on when I see a woman instead of asking how she is I’ll tell her she looks fat. Or if a woman tells me she has a problem instead of asking her what the matter is and consoling her I’ll tell her to stop crying like a baby and bake me a pie. Or if she talks about how her boyfriend is a dick and doesn’t know what to do about it instead of telling her for the eight millionth time that she should dump him and get a nice guy (but she never does), I’ll just punch her in the face and tell her to get her ass back in the kitchen. I might even start calling her ‘woman.’ I also need to practice my cocky smile–you know, that kind of shit-eating grin you just want to slap the instance you see it. It’s foolproof. I’ll have to beat them off of me with a stick. Literally. I will physically beat them with a stick.

You know, in the grand scheme of things, I probably won’t do it. I’m a nice guy to the core or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment. Also, I know things aren’t really THAT bad, and I’d never complain that they are, so don’t jump down my throat about the starving children in Africa because I know they’ve got it worse than I do. I’m just unlucky and wanted to share about it. So if you’ll excuse me, I have a long night of making love to a beautiful woman ahead of me. No, wait, I don’t, actually I’m going to a ‘road rage’ class and then watching cartoon network until 1 in the morning and going to bed. Yee hah.

The start of another blog no one cares about

That’s right, kids, blogs aren’t just for angst ridden teenagers and bored, bitter cube monkeys, they’re for me too, so come join me as we celebrate the magic that is Breaking Down Bryan through a generic copy-and-paste blog format I found one day while looking for porn.

Since you asked (or maybe you didn’t–I don’t really care), I’ll introduce myself. I’m Bryan, I’m 24, and I live in a cramped apartment with my dumb little dog. I work at one of the country’s biggest voting industries doing a job a monkey could do blindfolded, alongside coworkers that might actually face fierce competition if the aforementioned blind primates found employment here. I don’t really make friends because of it, because everyone seems to think my sole purpose is to break into and rig my own machines and find a way for George Bush to be reelected a third time. “The polls are in, and George W. Bush took an overwhelming 66% of the votes over Obama and McCain. Frankly, I’m not sure how this is even possible, but let’s go down live to George W. who’s snorting cocaine out of the navel of a hooker. George?”

I have a degree in IT but you won’t find me discussing the newest computer with it’s flux capacitor pentathlon processor, because I don’t care. Star Wars vs Star Trek? I don’t care about either of them; I’d rather be under the hood of my car or working out in the gym. I’d also rather spend time with a woman (a real one, not a digital rendering of one) than play 8 hours of World of Warcraft. Yes, that’s right, I’m like the jock of the IT world… how does that work out? Is that even possible?

I’m not without my dorkiness, however. I write novels…good ones (I hope), that I’m trying to get picked up by an agent. It’s a satirical fantasy story where the queen’s a pirate, the hero’s a smartass, and legends are greatly exaggerated. I sing, a lot. Like not just in the shower. I absolutely kill at the karaoke bar and it feeds my dwindling ego. I play a Nintendo Wii because it takes the slight nerdy edge off of playing video games by introducing physical interaction. I collect Mr. T action figures that I keep in the shrink wrap so they don’t depreciate in value. Okay, that last one was a lie. I just wanted to see if you were still paying attention or drifting off.

So if for some reason you haven’t drifted off, stick around, get inside my head for a bit, and leave me a comment. I don’t bite, I just write scathingly passive aggressive e-mails. So there.