Blogs

By Bob Niles

A few years back my Dad's doctor thought that it would be better for the community, travelers on the roads, pedestrians on the sidewalks and people living in houses near a road that my Dad turn in his steering wheel.

It was best that he and his love for Detroit steel separate, and to park old Betsie in the garage.

Yes, no longer could he roll down the car window and call the driver in front of him a clown for…well, just for being in front of him probably. No longer would the 'I could park an 18 wheeler in there!' echo off the buildings while someone was trying to parallel park. He had lost his ability to safely operate a vehicle and to give circus-related observations and self- proclaimed mechanical feats from the comfort of his car.

To get into the anger, inconvenience and loss of mobility he suffered, well that's just a given. But what was a surprise was how he acted out every time I had to drive him somewhere. It was like it was my fault he lost his license and he was going to get even. 

He would never sit in the front seat of the car but directly behind me and play peek-a-boo while placing his hands over my eyes while I was driving. 

He'd roll down the window and tell the guy in the next car I was drunk and that we were out to score more mixer. 

He'd make me wear a cap so I looked like I was his chauffeur in my 1996 Honda Accord. And if I didn't wear the cap, he would bark at people driving by. 

I'd take him to his bank and he cried elder abuse and then agree to give me another $200 if I'd stop hitting him. And then he'd laugh his head off on the way out. 

I'd take him to his usual greasy spoon coffee shop with all his old cronies and he'd introduce me as his daughter that did a reverse Bruce Jenner. 

He'd excuse himself from wherever we were, take the dog and go sit in the car with the windows rolled up on hot days. 

He downloaded ice cream truck music on his phone and would play it out the window when we drove slowly through school zones. 

He'd play Chinese fire drill at lights only he wouldn't get back in the car. 

He'd stand up through the sunroof, spread his arms and claim he's the king of the world with his shirt wide open wearing one of Mom’s bras. 

He'd make me keep the windows up on especially hot days so people would think we had air conditioning. 

If we got stopped by the cops for, let's say impersonating an ice cream truck in a school zone, he'd start doing this awful impersonation of Clint Eastwood doing Robert De Niro: “You talking to me, punk? Are you talking to me? Go ahead make my day, punk.”

He'd tape baking powder up in plastic bags and hide them in the car’s trunk. He'd then phone the cops and tell them we were on our way to a drug drop while on our way to his proctologist. 

Called everybody clowns that couldn't drive to his standard and said that his son (me) would beat the crap out of them if they had anything to say about it. 

And so it was because of all this acting out and me getting beat up often, I made an appointment with his doctor to have his mental state assessed. He's in the waiting room chatting up the receptionist and nurses, calling them all by name and telling them hilarious jokes. Everyone in the waiting room thinks my Dad’s just great! He visits the doctor (makes me wait in the reception room) for half an hour then comes out all fine and happy.

Doctor takes me into his office and tells me he's doing just fine and assures me I should have no concerns. “Great!” I say and head back to reception just as my Dad steps back into the room. Says he had to see a man about a horse and tells the receptionist the man's head needs attention as all the toilets are overflowing. We slosh down the hall to the car park to find I have two flat tires. Dad said he'd be sleeping in the back seat and to wake him if he needed someone to hold the flashlight. He laughs his head off and crawls into the car for his afternoon nap. 

That was the last time I made my Dad go to the doctor. I gave up making him go anywhere. And after the time he went to church and just sat in the confessional booth until the priest got fed up and banged on the wall, my mother gave up on him, too. It wasn't so much that he was just sitting there. It was the fact he told the priest to “stop banging, there's no toilet paper on this side, either!”
And he wasn't even Catholic! He just had an old joke he had to try before he died. 

I really hope God thought it was funny. We all did. 

— Bob Niles

A retired plumber from the Vancouver area, Bob Niles is a stay-at-home grandpa. (The grandkids are in school, and he’s at home.) His wife says his most annoying feature is that “he doesn’t ask for directions — and a thousand other things — and leaves the seat up.”