-getting the lead inside-

the last quarter of my 15th year
and learning to drive
under the tutelage of my father.

behind the impossible

circumference of the steering wheel

I negotiated his 1950 Ford 4-door sedan to the left

slowly crossing the middle of Bedford street

then freewheeling into "Whitey's" Esso station,

positioning the utilitarian pea-green beauty

alongside the pump for a dollar’s worth of Regular.

this was gasoline possessed
before it was sissified and drained of its leaded blood

and a buck’s-worth took you somewhere;

on this day, across the street 
and with a fresh greenback in the tank

we rolled to a break-drum's squealing stop
at the curb in front of our house, and

after a Saturday's lunch of starch and sugars,

we’d head-out to the route 6 highway at the Narrows.

the oldman would drive there,

pull over to the shoulder
and with the engine running
engage the emergency brake
setting the column shift to neutral.

he'd get out from behind the wheel
as I slid across the benchseat

and from the passenger side he instructed me

to release the emergency brake.

with a tight, left-handed grip on the handle,

a slight but strong nudge upward to release

and a confident counterclockwise twist,
the apparatus sunk to rest beneath the dashboard.

“Next time keep your foot on the brake pedal”.

I made the same mistake leaving the gas station.

“You did the same thing pulling out of "Whitey's""!

It seemed to me at the time that if my oldman drove as carelessly

on his way to Buzzard's Bay in the morning he’d be killed on the road,
thrown from the pea-green 4-door Ford sedan to lay belly-up
on the pavement of old route 6 like a common possum, and if so;

who then would drive eastward in the morning on route 6

to sell the booze necessary to support the family?

certainly not me with my careless driving record.

christ, even the buck spent for gasoline at Whitey's came from his pocket.