Driving Miss Crazy

Too much stimulation.

My mother is the worst backseat driver you could ever have the misfortune of sharing a car with.

Every turn is too sharp. “Easy on the gas!” I brake too hard.

“Easy,” she’s always saying. “Take it easy!”

That’s why I take a particular joy when she drives me to school — and brushes off all the four-way stops on campus and nearly runs over half the student body.

For safety reasons, I stay mostly quiet. She’s easily — and rather dangerously — distracted. But the other day, she launched the car over railroad tracks, and I swear, for a moment, we were airborne.

“You know if I had done that, you’d kill me,” I said. “And you just go straight Dukes of Hazzard like it’s nothing.”

Her response? An extended cackle. Madwoman.

“Dukes of Hazzard!” she roared, paying precious little attention to the road. “I remember years ago, when you were on crack, you had the most twisted sense of humor. I didn’t understand any of your jokes.”

I reminded her to try to keep her mouth closed while driving. “It shows your age.”

And she unleashed another gale of laughter.

“I had been so used to you being funny. Then you weren’t. And I thought, maybe I’m getting old and I just don’t understand.

“Now, you make me laugh every day.”

“Mom... MOM!” I begged her. “STOP SIGN!”

Then she took a wide lazy turn. And swerved so close to the car beside us, I could see see the terror in the driver’s eyes.

It takes a lot for a former addict to say these words. I mean, I used drugs to death-march my heart into something resembling a flutter.

But it had to be said.

“Mom, SLOW DOWN.”

“Yeah,” she admitted at last. “That was bad. I have to pay more attention. Too much stimulation.”