My Ride or Die

It was bound to happen. A few months ago, I woke up and realized I’d become my mother. She’d passed away the previous year at 90, and I missed her, but I can honestly admit, our mother-daughter bond had been challenging. For starters, I never called her "Mom," it was always Evelyn. I was her, ride or die before I even knew what that meant.

I spent the better part of childhood, driving around with a woman who could skillfully back out of a driveway like a Bond villainess, only to speed back in two seconds later because she'd forgotten me. She’d had cars pulled from ravines, even a lake once. The excuse that she hit a deer was so frequent, she was dropped by her auto insurance. Made sense to me. We lived in New York City at that point, so even if there was a rare deer, the animal moved faster than city traffic anyway.

No civilian in their right mind drove in NYC, but Evelyn did. The first thing she did when we relocated in my teens, was buy a ‘66 Thunderbird. She maneuvered like a seasoned cabbie, double-parked to chat with girlfriends, or to just flirt with some rando, oblivious to the honking of irritated drivers. The woman refused to use her blinker, but if by chance she did, she'd drive for miles with it clicking like a metronome.

She was referred to as “lead foot," by her mechanic. Chain-smoked Virginia Slims, with all the windows rolled up, like the London fog had rolled in, and somehow, that coffin nail magically hung from her lip while she talked incessantly, putting on make-up in her rearview mirror, while driving with her knee. Evelyn was the OG of road rage.

The woman didn’t believe in seatbelts, claimed when she started driving at 14, they didn’t exist. Besides, they wrinkled her clothes. I came to understand Evelyn was a free spirit and her obsession with driving, even if the destination was within walking distance, was her escape. That car was her ticket to freedom, but I knew, by then, there were medications less expensive.

I'll admit, when she dropped me off at high school in her cat-eye sunglasses, wearing her fake fur coat, behind the engine of that bright yellow T-Bird, I felt proud. I wasn't sure why because deep down, I never wanted to be like Evelyn, in fact I craved stability, a husband, a grounded life so unlike my transient youth. Yet everyone, even Evelyn herself, believed I was lucky to have such a groovy mom.

I thrived on that little morsel of peer-acceptance to survive those tenuous years. But early on, I was aware it was always Evelyn's journey, I was just along for her ride. I knew sooner or later, I needed to make my own path in life. With no dad in sight, community college was my only option. At 18, who knows who they want to be when they grow up.

With no money to pursue a bachelor’s degree, Evelyn would say, “College, shmolege, what do bachelors know anyway? You’re learning by living, sweetie, just stick with me.” I believed her. After all, she was Evelyn, ubiquitous. But too often, while she was the accelerator, I had no choice but to be her brake.

I eventually married a salesman, much to Evelyn’s dismay. A “bum” she called him, even though he treated her well enough. I stopped listening to Evelyn because I’d learned over the years, it didn't matter. My husband I were unable to conceive, something about "slow motility" and Evelyn's first response was, "What did you expect from a mosquito dick?" When I finally cried until I had no more tears left, Evelyn was there to pick up my broken pieces.

Eventually settling down a few blocks from Evelyn's uptown apartment, I made a career of sorts in a local bookstore just blocks from my home. I never minded walking, but Evelyn insisted on chauffeuring me every day. I never had to drive anywhere.

I gave her credit where it was due. Evelyn passed on her love of books, of reading. Wherever we ended up, we'd drive to libraries all over the county, the smell of pulp fresh in our memories, and there were no better libraries than the ones in NYC.

Ever since I learned the written word, Evelyn's rule was that I could stay up as late as I wanted, as long as I was reading. I was forbidden to see a popular movie without reading the book first. Like Evelyn's need to drive, books became my escape. I could often be found stretched across her backseat, sometimes even parked in the garage, engrossed in the latest trashy novel. I will forever be grateful to her that I could find pleasure while reading the back of a cereal box, or “sharpie art” in bathroom stalls along highway pit-stops. Evelyn taught me that everything written and spoken held meaning. The word being mightier than the sword, I learned from the very best.

Evelyn continued to cruise through life until her final weeks. It wasn't pretty at times, and we were grateful no one was injured, just a few mailboxes and some shrubs. And somehow, through it all, by then we'd become friends. The traditional mother's love I sought for so long, had been there all along in Evelyn. In the end I made her two promises. One was I'd bury her in the Thunderbird, because as she put it, even a brand-new KIA cost less than a damn casket. I never planned to follow through on that, nor her second ridiculous wish. She’d never know. Although her haunting me from beyond was certainly not out of the question.

When Evelyn passed away, the estate sale revealed a collection of traffic tickets when the movers rolled up the massive Persian carpet in the sitting room. The hardwood floors looked like the end of the day on the trading floor on Wall Street. I stood there staring, wanting to laugh, but too alone to even cry.

Evelyn was sophisticated, her appearance forever impeccable, flawless even in death with her long, perfectly coifed silver hair, manicured bright-red nails, and pashminas. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and see drought lines around my eyes, laugh lines no longer funny. My chin with its 45-degree angle, had become more of a slope. I only looked acceptable at eye-chart distance. But under all that, Evelyn was there. I could even hear her voice, my ride or die.

I started stuffing tissues up my sleeves and lost my car keys so often, I had a small tracking devise put on them. I'd be on-hold sometimes for so long, I'd start searching for my cellphone to play Candy Crush, only to discover I was in the middle of a call, phone pressed to my ear. I recently had an argument with my internet provider because they never responded to my emails, only to discover I’d been literal with the word “at” while the rest of the free world was using @.

Worse, Evelyn had always sensed my husband of 40 years was gay. I ignored her because I honestly didn’t care. He was a good provider and a kind man, albeit horribly boring. On the way home from Evelyn’s funeral, which was more of a celebration; she even wrote her own glowing eulogy, my husband announced he decided he needed to find himself. I told him to look at his driver’s license. He moved out the next day, taking all his things and some of mine, too.

I was in such a quandary and not about my husband moving out. It was how to fulfill Evelyn's final 2 wishes. If I followed through on one of them, it would make the other impossible to complete. I had to do something, so I made a decision maybe for the first time in my 69 years without Evelyn's two cents.

The first time I met Officer O’Malley, he pulled me over and I did the only thing Evelyn taught me to do with police officers, I cried. In my defense, I was pushing the big seven-zero, and I couldn't see well at night. I can see fine in daylight. When it’s dark, I can’t tell what is what, at night. They’re just odd shifting shapes. When he asked me if I knew why he was pulling me over, I said, “Because I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt?” More of a stupid question because it was dark so how would he know if I was wearing a seatbelt? He informed me I’d run a stop sign. I knew I blew through something, but didn’t know what, just grateful no other cars were involved.

I really did think it was my license when I handed him my Mastercard. Looked just like it. I finally located a fishing license in the glove box with my ex-husband’s name, and it matched the registration whose last name matched my last name. I told the officer I must have left my driver’s license in my other coat, even though it was 98 degrees out, and no one even wore clothes if they didn't have to.

He warned me that I shouldn’t be driving at night. Well, how else was I going to get where I was going? It was only held at night. It was then I saw something straight down the middle of the road. I asked Officer O’Malley, and he said it was the curb, and it wasn’t in the middle at all. Well, pardon me.

He eventually handed me 4 tickets, one for running a red light, one for not wearing a seat belt, a third for no proof of driver’s license, and the final for destruction of property. I had 72 hours to report to the local police department with proof of said license. I kindly asked him what I should do with these tickets, as I’d never gotten one in my entire driving career, and I told him so. He was a bit rude. “Get a lawyer.”

It finally occurred to me how quickly tickets such as Evelyn's could multiply in a matter of minutes. I needed a traffic lawyer and a divorce lawyer. A friend from my bridge-club found me a very reasonable paralegal but neglected to tell me he was her 19-year-old grandson, and I was his first case.

I admitted to this newbie that I honestly wanted to divorce my husband. I drew a line down the middle of our bed and defied him to cross-over it without my permission and never after I’d had alcohol, which was pretty much daily in the end. I flipped the fuse during his favorite team's Superbowl, then, oopsy, flashlights without batteries. I actually enjoyed listening to him stumble around in the dark, but that only worked that one year.

I’d changed the times on all the clocks to different time zones, so he has no idea which one was correct. A few other innocent pranks, but he only got injured once, and it was his own fault for refusing to own a cell phone. Trapped in a walk-in freezer for three hours I’m sure was not a pleasant experience, but I had remined him time and again, get a cell phone. I may have orchestrated the incident a bit to push his hand, which hand been stuck deep in stubbornness for decades.

After this prepubescent lawyer reviewed the sheath of my papers before him, he said my papers corroborated everything my soon-to-be ex-husband lawyer said in his documents. "What would you like me to do?"

Perhaps grow up? Instead, I said, “Where can I get a gun?” It was an Evelyn moment for certain. All I really wanted was the other matching guest bathroom towel. My husband left one behind, who does that? I hadn’t anticipated the lawyer wannabe would take the “gun” request so literally and involve the police. The little twat fired me as his client for apparently making premeditated threats about killing my husband.

You can imagine how I felt, handcuffed in, of all places, a law office- trying to defend my honor. I will admit to being angry and yes, I did yell in front of several other lawyers that I didn’t want to kill my husband - I wanted to kill Doogie Howser with a law degree. In hindsight, I realized I may as well have screamed “bomb” on an airplane. Apparently, I needed a criminal attorney, too.

Through it all, I refused to give up on my weekly mission. That was when once again, I encountered Officer O'Malley. I parked in a handicapped spot in front of the drug store and no, I didn’t have the dashboard tag. I was picking up my medication anyway, so there was obviously something wrong with me. Medically, I meant.

I’m not sure if O’Malley was secretly tailing me but once again, I got a ticket. Yes, sue me, I was in the drug store for more than 30 minutes and I did have 11 items in the 9 and under checkout lane, but I was only acting as a good citizen, knowing I needed to move my car in case someone in a wheelchair needed that parking space. I told Officer O'Malley we would take it up with the judge because I could barely see the sign, due to eyesotosis, and why I parked there to begin with.

Officer O'Malley’s response, “What we? You’re on your own with the judge, lady, second violation in less than a month,” was a tad rude and I did humph. I could’ve said much worse. Evelyn would've.

My third encounter with Officer O'Malley was possibly my worst, to date. Again, I wasn’t even in the car, having reached my weekly destination, and my sixth and final week, at that. O’Malley had his foot on my bumper, using my truck as his personal desk, big grin on his face. He told me to not even try and use the vision excuse as to why I chose to park unlawfully, again. This time, I was sincerely confused, convinced I was clearly advised to park in that particular spot.

Something came over me, I heard Evelyn -How dare he put his dirty foot on your shiny bumper. Suddenly, I found myself re-flexibly nudging his knee off my car's bumper. Apparently, it was a little too aggressive, because he fell to the ground and somehow his pen jammed straight into his palm, might have been clean through. A stigmata of sorts, I suggested, because he didn’t deserve it. Cop-irony was a thing these days, and I told him so. He said I was in deeper trouble than the pen imbedded in his hand.

He called for back-up. Of course, I was going to try and defend myself against any allegations. I did offer a hankie from my purse, but he warned me to stay back. I begged him to explain why I was in the wrong parking spot.

He shook his head. “What does the sign say in front of this spot?"

Well, I’ll admit I did need to squint, but it clearly read, FINE FOR PARKING. It was fine to park there, so I did.

I wasn't sure if the pen impalement was making him woozy, but he started to laugh, so hard, I couldn’t help but laugh along with him. I was just hoping he’d had a recent tetanus shot. After he finished laughing, he finally asked me what I was doing in that old school building anyway every week.

I thanked him for finally asking because I was so proud. I had just passed driver’s education class. I reached in my purse and showed him my certificate, explaining I still needed the road-teat. I knew maybe a call for an ambulance was in order because he started laughing again, like he’d never heard such a funny thing in his entire life. He may find it funny that a 69-yaer-old old lady was getting a driver’s license for the first time, but I earned it. although I still had to do the practical part of the test which was on the roadway. He shook his head through tears,

O’Malley obviously hadn’t paid much the first time he pulled me, even believing I left my license at home, probably saw me as somewhat harmless, figuring the courts would work it out. But how could he admit to his colleagues back at the station, that he accepted a fishing license and not even mine. As the sirens and flashing light glared in the distance, I understood his dilemma.

Officer O'Malley would rip up the ticket, if I promised to tell him the that the minute I scheduled my road-test so he could call out sick that day. I'm not sure if O’Malley has forgiven me, even after my sincere apology and the homemade cookies. How was I supposed to know he had a severe nut allergy? After a few epi-pen injections, he came around and it sounded like he may have said I was the nut he was allergic to, but I can’t be certain. He was, after all, somewhat doped up. Most importantly, I hoped his hand was on the mend.

Evelyn got at least one of her last wishes. After three road tests, I got my driver's license at the age of 70. However, Evelyn's second wish would never be fulfilled, at least not in the manner she requested. She wasn't buried in her '66 Thunderbird. Instead, she was cremated. I, in turn, inherited her T-Bird. Every time I sat behind that steering wheel, I sensed Evelyn smiling down on me, my ride or die.

Evelyn resides in the ashtray of the T-Bird. It felt appropriate given her penchant for tobacco. She goes everywhere with me, mostly to court these days. For that, I make no excuses.