The Worst Passenger in the World
Proving once again that men can be very slow learners ...
I was so gratified by the conversations sparked by my pre-holiday piece, “Why I’m Not Going Paid on Substack,” that I almost made the mistake of revisiting the topic right away. This was my most read and most-commented upon piece, as Substack was quick to let me know. I learned so much from the comments, and I’ve got a bit more to say … but I need to let it percolate a bit. Thanks for all the comments and welcome new subscribers, however many there are.
In the meantime, I’ve started into my pre-hab for an upcoming full knee replacement. My doc was describing how difficult the first days of recovery were going to be, but when I recounted to her the story of my last surgery, she agreed this probably wouldn’t be as bad. The funny thing is, it wasn’t the recovery I remember most about that surgery, nearly two years ago. No, what I remember most is that I finally recognized something Sara had known for years: I was the worst passenger in the world.
October 23, 2021, around 1:00 PM, somewhere north of Redding, California:
We were five, maybe six hours into what turned out to be a 13-hour drive, and I had a decision to make: did I want to continue my 31-year run as the worst passenger the world, or was I ready to pull my head out of my ass, shut up, and let my wife drive?
In terms of mental clarity, I wasn’t at my best. I was in a substantial amount of pain, thanks to the bilateral sports hernia/adductor tendon surgery I had the day before in Fremont, California. I won’t share pictures (though I’ve got them), but it involved sewing up tears in both abdominal muscles and re-attaching both adductor tendons, which had begun to detach from my pelvic bone. Four open incisions in a very delicate area.
We had a choice on how I’d recover: we could spend 10 days holing up in a hotel near the surgery center or—my bright idea—drive the 850 miles home while I was still “enjoying” the effects of the substantial amounts of anesthetics and nerve blockers they had used during the surgery. You know which one we chose.
We left Fremont as the sun rose, Sara driving and me gobbling Percocet on the shorter end of the 4-6 hour spacing window my doc had advised. But no amount of Percocet was going to tempt me to repeat that first rest-stop break we made outside of Sacramento, where I struggled to get out of the car, then limped to the restroom clutching Sara’s arm, moaning in agony. “I can’t do that again!,” I groaned. After that first stop, I didn’t get out of the car the rest of the trip home: it was pee bags all the way for me.
Sara powered on, and there I was in the passenger seat, head swimming with Percocet, trying to stay hydrated and to move enough to avoid the risk of blood clots, pee bags piling up at my feet, unable to move a muscle without pain, and all the while “advising” Sara on how to drive: you could probably go faster, there’s a passing lane ahead, that guy behind you wants to get by, etc., etc. A steady stream of driving advice from a guy who didn’t know how to shut up.
A Crucial Moment
That’s when Sara said something that made me realize we were at a crucial moment in our long history together. It wasn’t an ultimatum, exactly, but it sounded an awful lot like “you can either shut up or I’m pulling this car over and we can stay in a fucking hotel until you feel good enough to drive yourself.”
There must have been something in her tone that pulled me up short, because I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t tell her I was “just trying to help,” or some other lame excuse. In fact, I just let what she said sink in, and I looked out the window and collected my thoughts. A long silence filled the space between us as I worked this problem out in my head.
My first thought was: “I could drive!” After all, I “reasoned” to myself, I’m on the tail end of this last Percocet, so my head should be clearing up soon. I could basically turn on the adaptive cruise control, and I wouldn’t need to use my legs much at all.
I bit my tongue on this one.
I thought about defending the “helpful comments” and advice I had been offering all day, hell, all our marriage, but I sensed in her a steely readiness to live up to her threat. I knew that sitting in a shabby hotel with a pissed-off wife for god knows how long was going to take us down a pretty dark path.
Look, I can hear you yelling at me as you read this, saying “Dummy, just apologize and shut up.”
But it took me some time to realize that there was another option, that I could simply make conversation, look out the window, and basically be a decent passenger. It seems like the most obvious solution, doesn’t it? All it would require is that I let the driver drive—just as she had done for me ever since the first day we had met. But that wasn’t going to be easy for me, because I was the worst passenger in the world.
The Worst Passenger in the World
What’s it mean to be the worst passenger in the world? Well, it looks like this: you sit in the passenger seat and second guess absolutely everything the driver does. Traffic is slowing ahead? Call it out, then put your hands on the dash as if you’re going to crash. Room to pass? “Make the pass honey, for god’s sake,” you call out, then mid-way through the pass, “show some commitment!” Sitting in the passing lane on the freeway? Constantly check the mirror, then sigh loudly if someone passes on the right: “You’re being one of those drivers.”
The worst passenger in the world sits in the passenger seat and acts like he’s the one driving, and imposes upon the driver his every judgment: go faster here, brake here, why aren’t you passing, why aren’t you letting the other driver pass? He scans the road ahead and second-guesses every … damned … thing.
Since I’m putting the screws to this guy (that is, myself), I’ll just admit that it’s not “the driver” he second guesses, it’s just this one driver, his wife, the person he professes—accurately, I might add—to love more than anyone else in the whole world. Oh boy, this is complicated!
I’d like to be better at describing what an asshole I’ve been, but it’s hard!1 Have you ever tried to describe one of the shittiest parts of your own personality? It’s not a lot of fun. Can we just agree I’ve been the worst passenger in the world?
The Only Decision
Sitting in the space between Sara’s challenge and my response that day, as we drove toward the mountains north of Redding, California, the wipers slapping in the heavy rain, it occurred to me that there was really only one choice: to be a better passenger. And so that’s what I tried.
Who knew it was so easy! The first thing I had to do was to recognize that I WASN’T DRIVING! So I stopped looking at the road in front of me, the cars in front of me, and I started to look out the side window. Oh hey, look at those black-and-white cows standing out there in that striking green field—how beautiful! I wonder what that billboard means? I won’t bore you with the dozen or so revelations I had about how beautiful it was to watch the world passing by.
And then I noticed it again: I am not driving. Sure, there are situations that require decisions of the driver, but those aren’t mine to make and since I’m not making those decisions—and I trust this person next to me who is—I’ll just not worry about them. I’ll trust the driver. (I know, I’m overusing all caps, but this is new to me so I’m just going to say it again: I’LL TRUST THE DRIVER.)
And it slowly unfolded before me, clear as day even through my Percocet fog, this being a decent passenger thing: you let the driver drive, enjoy the view, and then—this one snuck up on me, just as natural as can be, though I’d experienced it so many times from Sara—offer to be helpful to the driver.
Oh hell, I’m hip deep in revealing just how foolish I’ve been for 31 years, I’ll put this one in caps as well: BE HELPFUL TO THE DRIVER! Sympathize with how shitty it is to drive through the mountains in the rain when there are semis all over the road. Grab a sparkling water from the cooler. Rub her shoulders if she feels a little tense. Just sit there and appreciate how great it is to have someone else do the driving.
And that’s how I stopped being the worst passenger in the world.
I wish I could say that every decision I’ve made about being a better person was that easy. I wish I could say that every time I recognized I’d been a jerk I just let it go. This time was easy, far easier than getting out of the car when we finally pulled in at 11 PM, and far easier than the recovery I faced in the days ahead.
This piece first appeared nearly two years ago, but I’ve revised it a bit. Cool mountain divider thanks to Meg Oolders. She writes too.
I took another crack at it in a piece called “I’m Confused.”
My wife and I married the October after 9/11 and decided to drive instead of fly to our honeymoon... from Michigan to Florida. It took 19 hours down and 22 hours back. On the return trip I learned what a saint she was and that I was whatever is not a saint when I'm hungry and tired of driving. We're blessed with forgiving wives.
Hope you're having a happy new year, and I look forward to reading more of your exploits!
Well, Tom, having driven you around Northern England for a while I'd say you are a reasonable sort of passenger now, terrifying though it no doubt was at times. I recall only two moments when you were noticeably unsettled, once during a right turn onto a fast and busy A-road across a few lanes in the rain (scary for the driver too) and a little later the same day, also in the rain, when we uneventfully joined a crowded four-lane "spiral" roundabout from the motorway and you prayed, quietly, "Jesus". Well done I say.