“I’ll drive,” I said nonchalantly. He knew how to exhibit the utmost calm and collectivity if he was going to pull this off.
We were near Chama, New Mexico and I kindly offered to drive the RV while my husband, Gary, attended an important conference call. This was all very well; however, we had just purchased a new mobile home and our purchase grew in size, both physically and monetarily.
We had recently traded in our 35ft RV. I loved driving it and even learned how to hook up the tow truck, hook up the electricity, hook up the water, and unfortunately, when Gary wasn’t available, empty the tanks. I carefully followed the law of tonnage, imitating semi-truck drivers.
So now we had changed “upstairs” to a 40ft RV not only longer but wider. He was determined to master this one as well. My husband, being a very trusting soul, agreed to let me drive him while he took her business call.
My first time driving all forty footers! I consciously did a brilliant imitation of knowing what I was doing as I settled into the driver’s seat. She wasn’t going to let him see that she was the least bit apprehensive. So what if he wasn’t exactly sure where the jake brake and turn signal controls were? What if he wasn’t exactly sure what all those other buttons and knobs were for? And he would just lean me back to look in the side view mirrors. Problem solved.
Fortunately, my husband didn’t notice my well-veiled fear as he tried to dial his call. He exuded the epitome of false bravery. Anyway, off we go! (He knew where the gas pedal was). All was well with the world!
As we approached Chama I noticed a fork in the road through town. Gary, now intently focused on his call, paused, held the phone to his chest, looked at me, and asked quietly,
“See that detour?”
I, intently concentrating on staying between the lines, said, in the most exasperated manner,
“Yes, of course I see the diversion.” Did she think I was blind?
I turned off the freeway onto a local street, making our way carefully through the residential maze, diligently following the detour signs. This was not a problem. No problem. I had this under control. It was fucking good!
At the end of the turnoff, on West Manzanita Street, I was directed to rejoin the two-lane highway. In front of my 40 foot RV were two passenger cars stopped at the stop sign, their turn signals indicating they were turning south as I intended to do. And in front of the two cars were several highway workers directing them, in the most animated manner, to avoid the newly laid asphalt in the northbound lane. The first car turned around, deftly dodging the disgusting mess, then the second car did the same. It was my turn.
All my life I had been taught to do what I was told, most of it unsuccessfully, but this time, once… I care. Seeing this giant approaching, these three men waved at me and yelled frantically, “TURN RIGHT, TURN RIGHT!” to avoid their beautiful old, sticky, freshly laid asphalt. They had absolutely no regard for our beautiful, undamaged, shiny new RV? Obviously not.
And there was the problem. It is one of the mysteries of life. Who would have thought that an extra meter and a half could make such a difference?
So, I tried it. I really did, and as Gary focused on his call, the trust and unconditional love in his heart, I inched forward, trying to turn right. And this giant was spinning and I was avoiding the asphalt. I was a good girl. I glanced in the rearview mirror to check my progress and…oops. I saw the stop sign swaying like a drunk from side to side. The rear of the trailer had refused to follow the front.
But now the good news. At least the stop sign was still there. He hadn’t knocked it down. And the second piece of good news was that Gary hadn’t noticed. Phew! Close call!
I knew I’d have to deal with stop sign cuts along the side of our pristine old car, but I’d think about that tomorrow. I finished the turn and was gleefully fleeing the scene of the crime, secretly hoping I’d messed up their precious asphalt and they hadn’t gotten my license number.
Saved! Until… I looked in the rearview mirror again and saw a bright neon green sign sticking up perpendicularly from the top of the bus, hooked into the canopy cover. Dammit!
I look over at Gary, who is deep in conversation, and say as calmly as possible in this moving situation:
“Gary, honey, I think there’s a green street sign hanging from the awning.”
“What???”
Until this moment, he had been blissfully unaware of the driver’s situation. She continued, in a most exasperated tone, not wanting to interrupt his call,
“Just leave it,” he growled softly.
“Leave it? Did you say leave it? I’m not driving down the road with a bright green street sign hanging directly from my bus! No way!”
He then said, directly into the phone, in an insulting tone (at least to my ears): “I have to hang up. My wife just hit a street sign and I have to deal with it.”
“Oh my God!” I snapped when he ended his call. “I can’t believe you said that. Do you want those people to think you’re married to an idiot?” Silence followed.
And, you ask, is there a new street sign for West Manzanita? Suffice it to say they found me. I now have two West Manzanita signs. One of which is located on the corner of West Manzanita and Highway 84 in Chama, New Mexico, and the other…proudly displayed in our RV.