~Big City Here I Come
A fish out of water pretty much describes Heywood’s life following his parents’ decision to move the family to the largest city in the state. If you’ve ever sat on a muddy creek bank and watched someone haul in fish one after another as fast they can and then take them off the hook and toss them up on the bank where they flopped around, that pretty much described Heywood’s life in the big city. He was one of those fish flopping around.
Heywood had just started high school, coming from a country school with a student population of two hundred to an inner-city school with a population of twenty-five hundred. That’s more people than the total population of the town Heywood moved from. The students dressed differently, cut their hair differently, and had way cooler cars.
More importantly, in spite of Heywood’s best efforts, his haircut looked too much like the one kid’s in the old black and white films who had a cowlick he referred to as his “personality.” Heywood certainly did not have “personality,” plus he got in trouble for using glue to paste his similarly recalcitrant patch of hair to his own scalp.
There he was, a fifteen-year-old lad, finding his way around a school building that had at least a dozen men’s rooms and classrooms on three floors. Heywood attended one first floor class that was at least an eighth of a mile away from his next class on the third floor. That allowed but a few minutes for him to go to his locker, retrieve the appropriate book, stop by the men’s room to get rid of the two soda pops he drank for breakfast and make it to his assigned seat or else he got a demerit. If you received too many demerits you sat in the principal’s office and watched a bunch of old women type on really loud typewriters while occasionally giving dawdlers like Heywood the evil eye.
The next shock to his system came when Heywood inquired about participating in the school sports programs. Heywood could still recall the look of disbelief from the nice lady behind the counter when he informed her that his preference would be the basketball program. Heywood later swore her eyes crossed in disbelief as the last syllables he uttered made contact with her eardrums.
“Did you say basketball?” she responded with a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Heywood admitted that he was somewhat taken aback with her overall attitude. After all he was quite well known for his basketball prowess where he came from. He was just about to bring her up to speed relating to his b-ball credentials when she redirected her somewhat puzzled countenance in another direction, on Heywood’s right.
“Good morning, Charles,” she said to the student standing beside Heywood.
Heywood was just about to tell her that he certainly did not appreciate being interrupted when the smiling lady informed him that the exceptionally tall, dark-skinned individual standing beside him was none other than a current member of the basketball team Heywood was planning to join. As that small bit of data found refuge in Heywood’s brain, she went on to inform him that this same young man was expected to achieve much fame as soon as he became the starting guard after the coming season.
While Heywood assimilated this new data, she further informed him that in spite of the young man’s lack of height, which Heywood quickly estimated was in the six-four to six-five range, he was still able to play with the much taller members of the team.
Heywood stared at the individual for some time before he regained his wits. Turning back to the grinning office clerk, Heywood succinctly informed her he would not be requiring her assistance after all.
All he could think about as he left the office was that the team member he’d just met was not only considered small, but also was merely a bench player. Just how big are these guys? Heywood thought.
He found his answer by going to the school library to look at the preceding school year’s yearbook. He quite possibly should have done some investigating before assuming he could walk into one of the oldest and largest high schools in the entire state and expect to play basketball. This was the inner city, big time high school hoops league. Most of the players on the team could expect to receive basketball scholarship offers from the best universities. Heywood also found out later that the player standing beside him in the school office was recuperating from an earlier injury. He had broken his forearm on the rim in a scrimmage game during the summer.
Heywood afterwards made sure he always carried around pencil and paper so he could compile a list of those things he would not be doing at the new high school he was attending. He would use it to record all sorts of activities he would not be participating in now that he was a very small fish in a very big pond.
Pretty much without reservation, Heywood could honestly report that his first year as a student attending a large inner-city high school went by without a single thing of any real significance occurring. He got up every weekday morning, got dressed, and rode a city bus to school. When he got to school he immediately became another small fish in a very big pond.
He could recall sitting at the back of the bus every day for an entire school year watching those un-cool nerds laugh and giggle at their seatmates goofy antics while bemoaning the obvious fact that he was destined to become one of them if he didn’t find another way to get to school.
The first thing he needed to do, he realized, was to obtain a learner’s permit to get access to a car. His dad worked out of town during the week which meant that if he could manage to obtain the single thing that every young teen wants, a driver’s license, he could use his car to improve his status at school.
That’s what Heywood decided to do, get a license to drive. How hard could it be? He had taken inventory of the huge number of slackers and outright nitwits who were cruising the streets in their fathers’ machines. You could always tell who was sporting around the family ride. Often it was a two-tone, four-door sedan, a family vehicle for sure. Black sidewall tires, stock hub caps, no tassels or foam dice hanging from the rearview mirror, stock muffler, all signs indicating this vehicle was the family coach. A kid would have to be pretty desperate to tool around in something so un-cool.
Desperate is exactly what Heywood was until he saved enough money to make certain alterations to his dad’s family sedan. He tricked it out pretty good considering his very limited budget. About the only thing he didn’t have the nerve to do was knock a hole in the muffler to make the engine noisier when he revved the motor while cruising through the local drive-in restaurants on a Friday night.
First Heywood needed to get back to the, as it turned out, not so small matter of the driver’s license.
Just how hard can it be? he asked again before going in to take the driver’s test. He’d driven a few times back in the small community he’d moved from. Of course, that was on back country gravel roads. But hey, roads are roads, aren’t they?
Well, as it turns out, they are not. Roads or, more correctly, we should say streets, since we are talking about stop lights, pedestrians, and using turning signals, bring into play entirely new skill sets. You didn’t use turn signals in the country as everybody knew where you were going. Ditto for stop lights as there weren’t any to speak of.
This all lead up to Heywood failing his driver’s test. But that, too, is incorrect. He actually failed multiple driver's tests. Heywood readily admitted that he had not met another individual who failed a driver’s test. One might inquire how something like this could happen. The driver’s test gods were against him. That’s the only rational explanation Heywood was ever able to come up with.
The first time Heywood went to the place where the driver’s tests were conducted, his attitude was one of, okay let’s get this over with. Heywood could vividly recall sitting in the waiting room while all those other mostly uncool looking individuals came and went, happily displaying the magic piece of paper authorizing them to join all the other nuts on the highway.
Looking back on this unexpected and traumatic experience, Heywood eventually determined that he was the recipient of some very bad luck. How was he to know the examiner was going to give
his dad’s car, the one he had tried his best to keep from looking like the typical family sedan, a third degree inspection? The guy checked the windshield wipers, the horn, the taillights, the headlights, and, unfortunately, the brake lights.
It turned out that one of the brake lights was burnt out. The guy refused to accept Heywood’s sincere offer to replace the nonfunctioning bulb as soon as he finished with the mere formality of impressing the examiner with his driving skills. The test was over before it ever got started. Even worse, Heywood would have to reschedule another test which would forestall the inevitable for another two weeks. To say he was put out would be an understatement.
What could Heywood do? He had no choice but to keep his great disappointment to himself and go back inside and make another appointment. He now carried a warning ticket in his pocket to get the matter in question repaired before returning for the next appointment.
The next two weeks went by at a snail’s pace. Heywood needed to find someone who had the time to ride with him to the examining station and wait until he finished the test. This was not an easy task. Most of his adult friends and relatives had jobs. All his other friends attended school. This left him with having to impose upon acquaintances that didn’t work, go to school, or appreciate having to get out of bed before noon. His dad was on record avowing Heywood had too many of these kinds of friends.
Heywood did get someone with a valid license to ride along with him and his learner’s permit to the examination station at the appointed time on the appointed day.
This time the car passed all the tests. Heywood was hoping to get the same guy, and sure enough he did. He even remembered Heywood and the break light problem. Heywood felt a sense of relief as he took his position in the vehicle: Heywood driving and the examiner, along with his clipboard, riding shotgun.
Heywood had been informed by several of his licensed friends that the course was fairly basic. First they would proceed from the driver’s station down a long parking lot entryway to a five-lane boulevard. After coming to a smooth stop, looking both ways, turning on the right turn signal, Heywood followed his anticipated instruction to proceed to enter the boulevard and drive until receiving further instructions. He also anticipated his next command, having had the entire driving course revealed to him by numerous friends, so he paid close attention to his rate of speed. He had been forewarned that if he exceeded the speed limit he would be told immediately to turn around and go back, meaning he would have failed the test. Heywood was onto the examiner’s scheme, so he cruised along easily, well below the speed limit but not so slow as to hold up traffic. He even knew what his next instruction was going to be. That, too, had been revealed to him by several friends. He would be told to make a left turn within the next few blocks. This was going to be easy.
Heywood was ready for it when the order came. “Turn left at the next corner,” said the instructed.
That’s exactly what he did right after he put on the left turn signal. What happened then became something of a blur. Heywood could recall the test examiner screaming out something like, “Oh God, we’re gonna die,” as Heywood calmly completed the maneuver.
He was not left in the dark for long as he became aware of the obnoxiously loud horn affixed to the front of a large semi pulling a loaded fifty foot trailer blaring in his ears as he crossed in front of it on his way to the side street. Heywood had inconveniently forgotten that this main artery had five lanes. The center lane, the one he forgot about, was the turning lane. He had turned out of the inside lane of the direction in which they were heading crossing right in front of a semi slightly behind them in the middle lane preparing to also take a left turn a bit farther on down the street.
Heywood swore he’d never heard a louder horn or so many tires losing rubber as those huge tires did sliding down the street hoping not to completely destroy a vehicle that so unexpectedly executed an illegal turn from the inside lane.
“Wow, what was that?” Heywood asked aloud. “Is that guy crazy? He almost killed us,” he stammered.
That’s when Heywood saw the troubled look on the examiner’s face. Confident something was amiss, Heywood calmly pulled the car towards the curb so he could slow down enough to get his passenger’s take on the crazy event that had just transpired. Before he could organize his thoughts to inquire of the examiner what his position was on the almost tragic event that had just transpired, his red-faced evaluator spoke.
Actually, the guy stuttered for a time before a clear and concise sentence came forth from his trembling lips, “You idiot, you almost got us killed!”
Heywood was pretty certain he got the gist of his comment so he figured he’d better jump in before the guy went apoplectic on him which he figured would not be a good thing.
“Was that my fault back there? If it was, I don’t think it’s my fault entirely. That guy just snuck up on us without a peep. I’m sure I gave a turning signal. He was obviously following us too close. Am I right? I’m sure sorry, though, and I hope you understand how things like this can happen sometimes,” Heywood countered.
By this time, sweat was rolling off the examiner’s brow, and he was looking as if he might start hyperventilating. Heywood figured it would be best if he waited for him to respond.
It seemed as if the story was being told in an echo chamber when two weeks later Heywood arrived back at the same driver testing facility accompanied by a different individual who was apparently not aware of Heywood’s great misfortune on the previous visit. Heywood’s feeling was to let bygones be bygones. What happened two weeks ago was purely a freak mishap. The chances of something like that happening to him again were practically nonexistent.
Heywood began to be on the lookout for the all too easily agitated tester who, in his opinion, acted in a purely unprofessional manner following the little mishap with the semi. It looked as if his luck was going to hold as he sat in the waiting room until whoever was going to accompany him on the actual driver test showed up.
And wouldn’t you know it. Right as the appointed time neared, the original closed-minded gentleman who went bonkers over the little semi incident showed up. He saw Heywood as he walked into the room, having just accompanied another hopeful driver around the driving course.
Was he going to be the examiner again? Heywood sincerely hoped not. Then, right as Heywood was about to give up, another driving tester walked up beside the former examiner and began to converse. It took a moment before both of them began to look Heywood’s way as their conversation continued.
Is this a good sign? Heywood asked himself.
Apparently it was as the previous tester turned abruptly and walked into another room. Simultaneously, the new guy headed Heywood’s way, clipboard at the ready.
“You’re up,” is all he said before turning and heading for the entrance to the parking lot where Heywood’s ride awaited.
Assuming he did not know where the car was, Heywood walked slightly ahead feeling as if this whole thing might just work out after all. Apparently the previous tester had not poisoned the waters as Heywood expected he might. His confidence grew with each step. Maybe he would be getting his license after all.
“You know the route, so let’s get started,” the new examiner said in a calm voice while entering the vehicle on the passenger side.
An Indy race driver could not have handled the car better as Heywood retraced the same course as before. All the while he tried to impress the guy with the clipboard the examiner said not a word beyond giving Heywood turning directions. Heywood’s spirits soared as they approached the last side street before returning to the infamous five lane boulevard where he had met his Waterloo the last time.
“You’re doing a good job,” the examiner said as he scribbled notes on his clipboard.
“Just one more maneuver and then we head for the barn.” The guy was smiling as he uttered those wonderful words.
See, Heywood thought, all that worrying for nothing.
Right as Heywood
finished the thought his companion informed him that he was to pull to a stop beside the lone automobile parked a half block ahead.
“Act as if there is another car parked two car links behind that lone vehicle. This will complete your parallel parking requirement. Usually we require the driver to park between two cars, but the street seems to be empty today, so we’ll just have to make do,” he said with a smile.
Wow, Heywood thought, my luck’s holding.
Heywood must have had a grin on his face about a mile wide as he followed the instructions to a T. He had, he believed, made the perfect parallel parking maneuver.
The nice gentleman with the clipboard scribbled notes on the form he held before him. As he did this, Heywood patiently awaited his instructions to take the horse to the barn.
After another thirty seconds, the examiner, the one he intended to put at the top of his Christmas card list, turned and looked behind them before calmly instructing Heywood to head back to the examine station.
“You got it,” Heywood said as he put the car in first gear and pulled away from the curb.
To this very day, Heywood still has difficulty recounting what transpired next. As he thought about it from time to time over the years, the sight of another semi pulling another multi-thousand pound trailer sliding to a jacked-knife stop barely inches away from the driver’s side door still gave him chills. Never could he recall ever hearing an adult in a uniform scream louder.
Between the semi driver and Heywood’s not so pleased passenger, he got two ears full. Heywood couldn’t recall the exact phrases, but he did recall a few of the individual words, such as: moron, idiot and lunatic among many others.
It goes without saying that the conversation while driving back to the station was also limited. Matter of fact, with all the examiner’s snorting and mumbling, Heywood couldn’t have gotten a word in anyway. The dirty looks he got from all the other exam station employees, who, upon their return, were informed forthwith of Heywood’s newest indiscretion, did not give Heywood cause to be hopeful for the future either.
Heywood did get his license, though, the very next time. On that wonderful occasion, his examiner was a younger man. Prior to the actual road test, he looked as if he’d been crying. He repeated over and over something about “Sweet Jesus,” and someone named “R. Fatherwhoart,” or something like that. To top things off as Heywood left the building he caught sight of several of the other examiners along with the young man who gave him the passing grade on the exam, down on their knees in a circle holding hands, looking as if they were giving thanks for something.
A strange bunch of people for sure, Heywood thought while he backed his father’s tricked out car into the path of another license applicant just then heading out to the mean streets accompanied by the same, red-faced, obscenity screaming instructor who had failed him over the first little semi-truck incident.
Having already received his license, Heywood simply smiled and waved his brand new driver’s license at the man ranting like a lunatic in the passenger seat of a startled license applicant’s car.
"That guy really ought to cool it,” said Heywood aloud. “All he’s got to do is ride around all day watching people drive. How hard of a job can that be?"