I didn’t know that my father was a bad driver, a reckless and dangerous driver, until I was in my mid-twenties.

During my childhood, in the 60s and 70s, my father drove a white Cadillac El Dorado. He saw himself as a player, and he traded it in every two years for the latest model.

The caddy was a boat. As a kid, I never gave a thought to the practical matter of parking a car of its size on the street. Usually, the El Dorado sat in the garage underneath our Greenwich Village apartment building, next to my father’s red Triumph 650 Bonneville motorcycle.

Every Wednesday evening, dad would drive us to the East 14th Street YMHA for “Family Swim.” After playing in the pool for an hour, we’d all enjoy a dry bake in the sauna before showering. During the winter months, my sister Lisa and I would tuck our still wet hair into identical blue Scandinavian print wool stocking caps, with pompoms dangling from the long tail ends, before heading in the car to our usual place for dinner, Joe’s on MacDougal Street. My dad would tell us to go into the restaurant and get seated while he parked the car. It would always take him a while.

“Don’t fill up on bread,” dad would warn us while we waited to feast on our favorite dishes: scungilli or polpo (conch or octopus) and arugula “in season” for mom and dad; shrimp and clams fra diavolo for me and my sister; and clams and mussels posillipo and marinated mushrooms with hearts of palm for my brother, Scott. Cokes for the kids and too much red wine, followed by espresso and sambuca for mom. When Scott fell asleep at the table, it was time to go home, and dad would go out to pull the car around for us.

As a teenager, I became aware of the relatively short distance between our apartment and the restaurant. Was it possible that my dad parked in our garage and jogged back to Joe’s? That may have been faster than finding a parking spot on the street large enough to fit the car.

During the summer, we’d pile into the car on Friday afternoons for what we thought was a long drive to Bayshore, Long Island to catch the Z-Line Ferry to Fire Island. My father was a fast driver and wove in and out of lanes on the Long Island Expressway to beat the traffic. “45 minutes. I made good time,” he’d announce proudly when we arrived. It took about twice that long for most drivers.

According to my dad, everyone else was a bad driver. “Motherfucker. That guy drives like he’s got assholes for hands!” he’d call out whenever he encountered a driver with moves not unlike his own or, even worse, one that moved slowly and with caution on the road.

My dad made music tapes to play in the car so that he could have his favorite music during the long ride. I always knew when my mother was trying to talk to him, because when she did, he’d turn up the volume.

Les McCann and Eddie Harris – Compared to What
Richard “Grove” Holmes – Misty
Velma Middleton and Louis Armstrong – All That Meat and No Potatoes
Ella and Louie – Gee Baby, Ain’t I Good to You, Stars Fell on Alabama
Fats Waller – The Joint is Jumping, Your Feets Too Big,
Louis Armstrong – Satch Plays Fats – Ain’t Misbehavin

We knew every word and every note. We’d sit in the back seat, unhindered by seatbelts, and bounce around and sing along to the lyrics.

Later on, in the early 80s and now living in the suburbs of Stamford, Connecticut with Gloria, his new wife, dad was encouraged to buy a BMW. He was annoyed by other drivers who would flash their headlights as they passed him.

“What is it with these drivers? They’re driving a foreign car and have to greet everyone else on the road who’s driving a fancy car with a flash of their high beams like a secret handshake? I’m not into that.”

He didn’t realize that he was blinding oncoming cars while driving with his own high beams. I didn’t fully appreciate the ridiculousness of what he was saying until much later, when I finally became a licensed driver at the age of 42 and discovered the etiquette of driving at night.

When he first bought his first BMW, he totaled it on the way home from the dealer. Cops and an ambulance arrived on the scene. “I’m fine, I don’t need to go to the hospital,” he told them. The police insisted on giving him a lift home.

After making a quick call to his car dealer to arrange for another, identical model, he decided to give himself a chiropractic adjustment by hanging from the chinning bar in the bedroom doorway as he was feeling a bit of pain in his mid-section. When my stepmother found him, his lips were blue, and he was about to pass out. He hadn’t realized that his ribs were broken in the accident and he’d punctured both lungs during the adjustment. Ultimately, he recovered and went on to have many other car accidents.

I was so accustomed to my father’s fast driving that when a taxi I was riding in was pulled over for reckless driving on my way to his house from the Stamford train station I was surprised. The officer opened the door to the back seat and looked at me with his mouth agape and eyes wide with concern, “Miss, are you alright?” he asked breathlessly.

I responded carefully, “Huh? Yes, why?” Maybe it was a trick question.

“Your driver was going very fast,” he said gravely.

“I don’t know, sure, I guess.” I hadn’t noticed.

After that, I began paying more attention to my father’s driving. When he’d come across a slow-moving car on High Ridge Road and slide over the double yellow line, driving on the wrong side of the road, and speed up to pass it, I spoke up
.
“I don’t care what you do when you’re on your own. But don’t ever drive like that when I’m in the car!”

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Jennifer Marcus grew up in Greenwich Village during the 1960s and 70s. She has been a communications professional in book publishing and in scientific and medical research. She currently lives in Los Angeles.