Author: roger

‘Welcome to Otto’s Audi Autos Mr. Legon.’

‘An audible palindrome, well done; shades of a Toyota. And Civic.’

‘My name is Leon Ridley, how can I help you?’

‘I’m looking to trade my 2014 Audi A4…’

‘Excellent, let me …

‘…low mileage …’

‘Fine, let me …’

‘… well maintained …’

‘Right, let me …’

‘… and I only smoke with the windows open …’

‘Commendable, I’ll make a note of that, let me …

          ‘… even in winter.’

‘… let me get your car evaluated, may I get you a coffee?’

(twenty minutes later)

‘Mr. Legon, we have the evaluation of your trade-in; which new car did you have in mind?’

‘Oh, roughly the same as I have.’

‘Thank you, please have a seat.’

(1 minute later)

‘Mr. Legon, we can send you on your way in a new Audi A4 for around $50,000.’

‘How much are you giving me for my trade?’

‘Around $15,000’

‘So, I’m looking at around $35,000.’

‘Mr. Legon, you’re looking at your car and around $50,000.’

(minutes later)

‘I see.’

(Leon puts two and two together …)

‘Mr. Legon, I sense some concern.’

‘Well, that’s a bit of a shock, not sure I’m ready for that.’

(starts to leave)

‘I understand, please have a seat, I may have a solution.’

‘You want to see the sales manager.’

‘Ha ha, you’ve seen Fargo. No, maybe you don’t need all the options your 2019 A4 comes with. Maybe we can cherry pick exactly what you want and end up with a more favourable price.’

‘How does that work?’

‘Well, much like the recent concern the market had over TV services, you know, forced to buy channels you never use, we at Otto’s Audi Autos have come up with a similar program. We want to keep you in an Audi not drive you to a Honda Accord¹To those not in the know, this is the car the Legons actually bought. You can buy the base Audi and then just add what you want or take it as is. As you know, all cars have eliminated the cigarette lighter, so this is the trend, just buy what you use.’

‘How much is the base Audi A4?’

‘$21,000.’

‘Unbelievable.’

‘Yes lovely set of wheels that comes with new tires by the way, so let’s see what you might want to add, if anything, to the base Audi.’

‘OK.’

Do you plan to sit down?’

I beg your pardon, there are no seats?

Do you know how expensive those seats are? The seats move six ways to Sunday with electric motors that always seem to go on the fritz just when the warranty runs out; they’re air-conditioned as well as heated and come covered in Ricardo Montalban endorsed soft, fine, rich Corinthian leather. Quite a commitment at $8,768.

          But what do I sit on?

‘Well, you could kneel or stand up if you order the sunroof. But most of our customers who forgo this option purloin one of those plastic milk box like containers you see at every fruit stand. Just go up and buy a few tomatoes and nonchalantly walk out with one.

‘That’s stealing.’

 ‘Mr. Legon, you can’t steal something that’s already been stolen. You’ll love them, they’re marvelous with so many built-in features: easy to adjust, move forwards, backwards, even sideways; zero maintenance, air-conditioned and with a cushion they’re practically comfortable. Ladies love them, they sit so high, so easy to get in and out of. And if they ever go missing you can just go and buy a few more tomatoes.’

 ‘I suppose.’

 ‘Shall we continue?’

‘Well, OK.’

‘Here’s another favourite that keeps money in your pocket; Mr. Legon, ask yourself, do you really need to roll down the windows?’

‘How much does that save me?’

‘$2,067 manual or $4,765 electric.’

‘And who really needs floor carpeting? Another $1,540. Never again face those pesky spots you just can’t seem to get rid of!’

‘And a glove box? Who wears gloves today? $890.’

‘And when was the last time you used your horn? $ 112.’

‘And your turn signals, $480?’

‘You mean?

‘Yes, use hand signals.’

‘But I can’t roll down the windows.’

‘Then you might not want that option; but several of our customers just order the sunroof and wave. Or always just make right turns.  Or just never change lanes; a bit of trip planning helps here.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘OK, moving on …’

‘Paint.’

‘Paint?’

‘No paint saves you $1,345.’

‘What’s it look like?’

‘Have you seen primer? Quite unique. Lovely at a certain time of day. Never needs waxing. And you get to choose between matte and semi-gloss.’

‘Or I can save you the $1,875 destination charges.’

          ‘How’s that?’

‘Just pick up the car at the factory.’

          ‘Which is where, exactly?’

‘Atlanta.’

          ‘Atlanta Georgia?’

‘Lovely at this time of year.’

          ‘You’ve been there?’

‘No, but I saw Gone with the Wind. Can get hot but then with these savings you’ll frankly not give a damn.’

‘You know Mr. Ridley, I appreciate what you and Otto’s Audi Autos are trying to do but I just can’t see myself adapting to a car without these options. I guess I’ll have to move on from the basic model.’

‘That’s fine; just one last question to guarantee you’ll save a bundle and we can get this settled to the penny.’

‘Good.’

‘Do you ever see the need to back up?’

I’m reluctant to accept being labelled ‘cheap’. ‘Value-seeking,’ would be preferable. ‘A discerning eye,’ better yet. But I’ve been known to chase a dollar while wasting countless more.

A recent example: I’m in search of a piano, the digital kind. The kind you can lift but do sit down to as a piece of furniture and get to hammer on 88 keys.

There are several out there and several suppliers out there so it’s pretty easy to get a salesman pumped.

First of all, I must explain that I’m not only focused on saving a buck but also super focused on making the most perfect decision.

I had already had a piano by this manufacturer. It was an upright acoustic piano that got lost in the move when we downsized to a condo. I was, therefore, prejudiced to this brand and this supplier also has a good reputation for digital pianos.

After what seemed like more than enough time, I decided on a model. We’ll call it model X. And model X is listed at $Y. Everywhere it’s $Y. So my discerning eye didn’t have too far to wander.

I go to the maker’s internet site to find the closest dealer and lo and behold they announced that a better model than model X is due, let’s call it model X1 at $Y1. I know what you’re thinking, go for model X, there will be a glut of them on the market; they’ll have to drop the price. But, of course model X1 is just that little bit better and I’m a gotta-have-it-a-little-bit-better kind of guy. So off I go to the nearest dealer to try out model X as to its looks and action. I’m already convinced that it won’t be great enough so that I can get the greater one in a few weeks. But model X should tell me that it’s what I want in a just-less-than-great piano.

After a gas-tank-emptying drive of several out-of-the-way kilometers, the GPS announces, ‘You have reached your destination. Your destination is on the left.’ I’m on the right hand side of the street and as I glance to the left, looking for my destination, all I can see is an empty store window. I can visualize the wrecking ball ambling down the street sizing up its prey.

But there’s another music store next to it that looks inhabited and, since I’ve come this far, I decide to give it a look.

The parking meter says, 1 hour costs you $1.50. A while back, a friendly meter person said you don’t have to put in the whole $1.50, it will accept partial amounts; it’s just a form of read-the-fine-print taxation that escapes most users. So my ‘value-seeking’ mind calculates the options:

• Don’t pay a thing, run directly across the street to see if they’re still in business. Running is key; this way you minimize the chances of getting caught by 0.033%. Cost: either $0.00 or $50.00 for the ticket written by the policeperson hiding behind the snowbank and $100.00 for jay walking when same policeperson has you wait until he/she’s finished writing out your parking ticket.
• Pay $1.50. Cost: deep depression when you find out the store is no more or at least a loss of $0.50 cause the store is open but you don’t need an hour to try out the piano.
• Pay $1.00. Cost: $1.00 and you confirm they’re out of business but you don’t feel as badly as if you’d paid $1.50. And maybe they’re open. And maybe you’ll get to play the piano. And maybe they’ll give you $1.00 when you find your receipt.

Decision? Dot 3.

I warily enter the store beside the soon-to-be-bordered up neighbour and am immediately faced with what could charitably be called a disaster. There are some musical instruments on racks, true, but they’re overwhelmed by boxes everywhere and in every state of use: some unopened, some opened and empty, some open and in a state of un-pack-ed ness and some being packed. I zone in on an individual committed to one of the boxes.

‘Let me guess, I just blew $1.00 on parking and you’re going out of business.’

‘No, no, not at all, just filling some orders.’

‘Don’t you usually fill orders somewhere besides in a showroom?’

‘Well our business is changing, the name’s Sam by the way, and we’re doing more business on-line than in the store. This guitar’s going to Montreal. So we spend a lot of time packing.’

‘Sam, I was hoping to try out the model X digital piano.’

‘Lovely, lovely piano. Sorry, everything’s in boxes.’

‘How ‘bout opening a box?’

You immediately get the feeling Sam doesn’t really need this sale.

‘Well, it would have to be assembled. How much time did you say you put in the meter?’

Sam hits me where it hurts, but he continues punching.

‘Hey, there’s a model X1 coming out in a couple of weeks. Great, great piano. I’ll let you know when it comes in.’

‘Can I then try it before I consider buying it?’

Sam’s pulse rate does not change.

‘How ‘bout I buy it, take it in the box, don’t like it and return it?’

I get a semi-nod from Sam now heavily into the styrofoam.

‘Doesn’t sound like the greatest of deals,’ I semi-whine. Then all of a sudden, like Santa Claus, Sam lays his finger aside of his nose, and giving a nod, out of the box he rises and rushes to his desk returning with a calculator which he furiously punches and then proudly presents 10 centimeters from my face.

It’s a deal on the model X1. At a lower than advertised $Y1 price. A pretty good deal.

I keep fighting, ‘That includes delivery?’

‘I’ll help you put it in your car.’

All smiles.

Well, all things considered, this slice of out my life wasn’t perfect; I didn’t get to try out the piano I hadn’t planned to buy. I didn’t even get to see it, but I got an offer on the piano I probably will buy that’s going to be hard to beat. So maybe over all I probably broke even. Or maybe a worth-it-all touch better than even.

As I’m leaving the store, hand on the door, pushing it partially open, in an almost here’s-looking-at-you-kid movie moment, I turn to Sam, ‘Well, I should be pleased, it could have been worse,’ Sam looks up from his incessant packing, ‘I could have spent a buck fifty on parking.’

Post Script:

To help you truly understand, dear reader, and truly, truly appreciate the import of this experience, I saved $ 0.50 on a potential $2,000 purchase. So it’s not trivial.

The hibachi sits defiantly on the brick patio. Now it begins, man versus fire: the gathering of twigs; the paper shredding, tearing up that day’s food section on tips for the discriminating Dad; and finally, the piece that resists, the lighting of the charcoal, the bloody charcoal.

It was the outside cooking thing to do at the time even though it defied logic. Why are you stooping to try to coax heat out of such a primitive idea? This squat tub of exposed cast iron was a minor step in the evolution of man’s quest for making a meal of a mammoth.

BBQ night always had an unhurried timetable. Meal planning easily added half an hour to the usual time coupled with a lot of guessing. ‘Looks about ready,’ became the right temperature in either Celsius or Fahrenheit and you learned to ‘touch’ the meat to decide when to turn it over to escape borderline shoe leather doneness.

And what a dance it was going in and out of the house at indeterminate intervals; not just to check on the burnt offering but also to stare down the racoons.

Enough! On to big brother. A real BBQ. On a stand. With a protective hood and a thermometer and acres of room to ruin an entire meal not just the meat. But again the charcoal, the bloody charcoal. Or briquettes. And just what are briquettes?

What do they add to the charcoal so that they can scrunch it into those funny shapes? Which glue am I vaporizing into the sirloin above? Is there a nutrition guide on the bag?

Contains 150% of your daily requirement for ingredients that are disturbing.

We finally decide to break away from the ‘back-to-nature’ limiting charcoal and go with gas; the ever-challenging tank of propane.

Who knew what an involved process this would be apart from the heavy lifting? Granted it beats charcoal at start up but at least a bag of charcoal doesn’t need a best by date.

‘Sir, see that barely legible date stamped on the bottom of your tank? You are a lucky man, you’re a day away from that thing taking you to heaven. And your luck doesn’t stop there, today our tanks are on sale. We recommend two.’

Say this for charcoal, you don’t have to seek out a charcoal filling station. And you know when you’re running low.

Our street has gas so after years of playing the we’re-out-of-gas game we decide to make a capital investment and hook up our inside gas line to the outside. A quick call to the certified, danger paid gas person and we welcome a steady supply of fuel to accurately manage the heat and eliminate all the clichés we used to counter, ‘That doesn’t look right.’

Now a gas line directly linked to the BBQ isn’t all sweetbreads and gravy. You’ve now invested in a piece of scientific furniture that could easily level every house on the street so it demands care. You have to give it an annual anti-spider clean out; replace those bits the heat has bored holes in; and regularly play checkers with the lava rock to make sure the dripping fat hits the appropriate chunk so that it gets completely zapped and wafts correctly back to the meal otherwise this whole exercise loses close to 100% of its raison d’être. But don’t tell that to the sensitive male burn maestro:

‘I even BBQ in winter.’

‘What drives you to do it besides an excuse to have a beer?’

‘Gotta have that real BBQ flavour.’

‘What is there about vaporized fat?’

‘Food just tastes so much better.’

‘It’s below zero and you’re setting fire to hot dogs. The only possible flavour I can imagine is carbon.’

End of story, right? No, this is a moving tale and we changed abodes from a no-holds-barred house to a control condo. We gave up the BBQ along the way but were prepared to start afresh. There’s a gas fireplace in our suite so we explored extending a line to the terrace.

‘No.’

‘You’re the manager, I presume?’

‘Still no.’

‘You’re not the manager or no …’

‘Yes and no you can’t run a gas line out to the terrace.’

 ‘How ‘bout walking a propane tank out to the BBQ?

‘Against the law to transport a propane tank up an elevator; rule 7 B Condo Act of Ontario 1967, Section iii: Obliterating a condo and everyone in it.’

The annual cottage exhibition introduced us to BBQs fired by wood pellets. Who knew? You feed wood pellets into a hopper which screw drives the little darlings into a pit that you electrically start on fire. And this environmentally sound idea can be a smoker as well as a BBQ depending on hot you get this baby to burn. Interesting idea.

‘You live in a condo, right?’

I nod supportively.

‘Do you have a balcony?’

‘Actually it’s a fair sized terrace,’ I proudly affirm figuring now we’re getting somewhere.

‘Anybody above you?’

‘Well, yes …

‘This hunk of hardened steel will not only smoke ‘em out but start a partial eclipse of the sun.’

So now what?

The electric BBQ.

It doesn’t even sound right. Isn’t that what you’re already doing in the kitchen? What does moving it outdoors bring? I’m thinking electrocution.

There has to be something else.

‘A kamoda grill is the best thing to happen to BBQing,’ quoted the football sized salesperson. ‘It’s ceramic lined so it retains an even heat; a few bits of charcoal and you’re set for the day.’

I peer down this deep pit created by its egg-shaped design. ‘How do you start it?’ I wonder. ‘Just throw some paper on top of the charcoal, toss in a lighted match, close the lid and stand back.’

‘Looks heavy,’ I counter, trying to get out of this potential $2,000 deal. ‘Hey Bill,’ calls football sized salesperson to second football sized salesperson, ‘Help me show this gentleman how easy it is to move this kamoda.’

I haven’t heard grunts like that since the finals in the Olympic weight lifting competition.

There’s a visible pause.

He reads me well.

‘Or, there’s this terrific hybrid at around $600.’

He has my attention. We move to a charcoal BBQ on wheels, table attached, that uses a built-in camping size compact propane tank, certified as a weapon of non-mass destruction, to automatically light the charcoal.

I’m hooked. ‘And the ashes drop into this metal container for easy cleaning.’

I’m being reeled in. ‘And this attached bucket here holds a bag of charcoal so you never have to touch it.’

I’m landed.

Charcoal. Bloody charcoal.

The notice comes well before your 80^th birthday; the dreaded senior’s driving test.

To give the government credit, they want you to pass, they don’t actually test your driving ability; the test is on the internet, how could you fail?

But it gets you thinking.

The first thing you think about is the fact that, chances are, you’re driving to your test. What’s with that? And the second thing is, if you’re not driving to your test, why are you even considering a test? You are not driving.

And I guess I should mention that if you plan to drive in Toronto, you really don’t need a test; you’re 80, you need your head examined. Have someone push your wheelchair to the bay window and let you start contemplating nothing.

So you muse about the irony of driving to a driving test and hope that you make it without an accident before you get there. Then you pause, ‘If I fail, how do I get home?’

As I drove into the parking lot, I had this feeling that someone, a highly skilled professional who’s in on this exercise, was watching me from a one-way window in the classroom so I back in. Not paranoid at all but why not cover all the bases?

‘We saw you backing your car into the parking spot, well done, never seen anyone do that before, why don’t we just give you a pass right now and send you on your way? And, by the way, you look so young what with all that hair.’

The designated torture room is on the second floor; I take the stairs (Hey, it’s only one floor and a highly skilled professional could be watching.)

‘We saw you climb the stairs, avoiding the long line-up at the elevator, never seen anyone do that before, well done, why don’t we just give you a pass right now and send you on your way? And, by the way, you look so young what with all that hair.’

From outside the door of the designated room you can see that all the waiting room seats are taken, that’s good, you will stand and again impress those watching you from the one-way window. (By now you know the rationale.)

The first question you ask yourself, ‘I wonder how I look compared to the others?’ I mean, we’re all officially 80, you can’t get around it, but you’re curious. Well, they all look a little nervous, as if in denial; they sit up straight, hide their canes and try to focus without dabbing their watering eyes.

Eventually a young woman ushers everyone into the classroom. I’d have thought that they’d have an 80+ year old handle the proceedings. You know, make us feel that we’re among our own kind and show that you’re still capable of doing something worthwhile at 80 even if it doesn’t involve driving.

Now that you’re together just about everybody looks old so you feel a little better since you have some hair and you’re not using a walker. A word about 80 year olds with walkers. How can you drive if you can’t walk? Maybe that’s it; you’ve giving up on walking so you might as well get a licence to drive.

But I’m being insensitive; I’m sure you can drive even if you need help walking but I’d like to know about it. Maybe the car licence should say, instead of ‘Yours to discover,’ ‘Yours to watch out for,’ so I can stay clear of him. And everybody didn’t get to the test on their own. There’s the (I’m guessing) 56 year old daughter enquiring how long the test will be so she can come back and bundle her 80 year old dad into the car.

We get seated. The course is limited to about a dozen people which, to my mathematical mind, means that they must be doing these courses 4 times a day, 5 days a week forever.

So, how does it work? As I said, it’s all laid out on the internet. The government’s not that slow, they know this segment is growing (albeit slowly and in a downward direction) and they don’t want to jeopardize losing this vote. But they’re realistic and everyone knows this is a challenging segment that needs to be made aware of their limitations and to prove it the first slide talks about traffic accidents and how we (In case you’ve forgotten, 80 year olds) run into things or get run into more often than any other segment of the population. Nothing gets your attention like a statistic showing driving is the fastest way for us to get to visit our hospital.

The first item on the agenda is checking the boxes on the form they mailed you. First question, did your (I’m paraphrasing) eye doctor say you need glasses to drive? You look around the room, everyone’s wearing glasses; just about everyone thinks about the question. You can read their minds, ‘If I check YES will this fail me?’ But you quickly realize that if you check NO, they’ll just take off your glasses and you won’t even be able to find the paper let alone check the box.

The next question has the same level of difficulty, did your doctor say you shouldn’t drive? Again, this draws long moments of contemplation, ‘If I check YES will this fail me?’ Everyone figures out checking NO is the safer bet. I wouldn’t put it past these wily octogenarians to intentionally avoid a doctor’s appointment just so they could honestly answer NO.

‘Well, during my last checkup, which I drove to I might add, my doctor said I had the drive (love that word) of a younger man.’

I can just picture it.

Forward thinking 75 year old:

‘Man, my knees hurt and my hip has practically dissolved.’

Spouse:  ‘Go see the doctor, you probably need your knee and hip replaced.’

Forward thinking 75 year old:

‘No, they’re not that bad, a couple of OxyContin mixed in with my fiber and one of those motorized chairs that lifts your bum to get you up and I’ll be on my feet in no time. I’ll go see him in 5 years.’

You can’t help but look around the room and do a mental check on the capability of the attendees. Ignoring yourself, you’d immediately flunk half of them. The pallor of the gentleman opposite me, the one who needed help pushing his walker, the one who had his daughter wait outside with the paddles, would be generously described as near-death grey. How does he get a pass? How do I avoid him on the highway?

So on to the eye test. This is a physical test, no more lying. You go one at a time so everybody pays attention.

You peer into a device that looks vaguely like the thing some shoe stores used to have to let you see how well your shoes fit.

‘Do you see a number?’ asks the instructor.

‘Yes’

‘What’s the number?’

 ‘125468’ You can feel the crowd’s mouths move, memorizing this number.

‘Now for the flashing light. Do you see the light flashing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, is it to your right or left?

‘Left.’

Again, everyone starts memorizing the direction; the government wouldn’t be that mean to do this randomly would they?

Next person.

‘Do you see the number?

‘Yes.’

‘What is it?’

‘536531’

A collective ‘damn’ murmurs across the room.

‘Now for the flashing light. Do you see the light flashing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, is it to your right or left?

No verbal response, the participant waves a hand. The instructor looks up and translates it as a left. And so it continues.

‘Do you see the number?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is it?’

‘42567’

‘It’s a 6 digit number, try again.’

‘42567’

‘What’s the number after the 7?’

Long pause.

‘42567’

‘Lets move onto the flashing light. Do you need your glasses?’

‘No.’

Your immediate impression is this guy is trying to pile up points (‘I’m a young 80, why am I here?’) and balances his glasses on the top of his forehead.

‘What’s the number?’

‘I need my glasses.’

So now it’s my turn. Since I have lots of hair I decide to show my obvious youthful ability  and simply rattle off the number and say the appropriate left or right and go and sit down. All in a minute. The general consensus around the room is that I’m a jerk.

At this point I should point out that it would be a good idea to bring some reading material with you.

Now on to the slide show.

I mentioned earlier that statistics are presented that strongly suggest you’re in the segment that has a high probability of not making it home without piling into something.

The subsequent slide discusses when you should seriously consider giving up driving. A shaking of heads, however imperceptible, rings the room.

‘Apart from your doctor and/or optometrist, who else could help you with this?’

Dead silence.

‘How ‘bout family or friends?’ queries the instructor.

You can clearly hear, ‘I don’t think so.’ This option will never leave the room.

Now on to the written test. Everything is above board, they show you the test and the answers!

The instructor holds up a piece of paper.

‘I will be distributing these papers but I don’t want you to turn them over.’ She immediately turns over the paper to show the written instructions on the other side with a blank space below. Nothing is hidden; this is above board Ontario.

‘When you receive this paper, and please don’t turn it over yet, write your name on the blank side.’

And then it hits you, you’re in kindergarden.

From the back of the room a helpful attendee turns to his neighbour. ‘Write your name on the paper.’

Another helpful attendee, ‘Did you write your name?’ ‘Where?’

I can feel the instructor sag a bit.

First off, you will be asked to draw a clockface indicating 10 after 11. And there it is, for all to see, illustrated on the screen. You decide that even a person with galloping dementia, as long as she or he had some level of short term memory, without a clue as to what was going on, could easily duplicate what was, a second ago, displayed on the screen.

But here’s the crusher, you have 5 minutes to complete this herculean task. Wouldn’t you be a bit concerned if you couldn’t knock this off in 30 seconds? Or maybe you’re in a digital world and 10 after 11 is 11:10.

My reading reverie (I met the 30 second challenge.) is shattered by, ‘3 minutes, you have 3 minutes!’

I look around, people are still drawing. How do they get to pass? How do I get to avoid them on the highway?’

I’m brought back to the moment with, ‘30 seconds, you have 30 seconds to go.’ I decide not to draw a second clockface.

Now the second test, crossing out the ‘H’s. You have six lines of letters with ‘B’s and ‘E’s and the other letters that look like ‘H’s intermingled with those tricky ‘H’s. You’re to cross out or strike out with a single slash, all the ‘H’s.

This option stalls the process.

‘Can I cross one and just slash the other?’

Your mind starts to melt. Maybe this is the test: can you physically handle nausea?

My mind rolls back several years:

‘Well Roger, what did you do in kindergarden today?’

“I crossed out some ‘H’s.”

‘Good boy, and how did you do?’

‘I got them all, no omissions.’

‘Well done, if your grandpa could have done that he’d be driving today.’

The excruciating edification finally ends, the instructor collects the papers and starts to mark them.

You wait.

‘Fred Kywinski III,’ she calls, turning to the one saddled to his walker,

‘Congratulations, you passed.’

Fred can’t stop beaming. It’s like he’s being recognized with a post graduate degree for solving a challenging problem in quantum mechanics.

You’re given a sealed envelope with your results that you’re not to open. Only the service Ontario agent, whom you have to see to get your permanent licence, is certified to unseal licked envelopes. You can feel that this could pose too strong a temptation for some of the more curious attendees.

To drive the point home, the instructor chides,

‘If you open it, you’ll have to come back.’ This cements the message.

I didn’t stick around to see if anyone had ‘officially’ failed. I wanted to beat those that had passed out of the parking lot.

Epilogue

We do this again in two years but then there’s a real driving test. You have to get in a car, start it and drive it having turned your head more than 10 degrees. You get the feeling that few of us will see that day.

I did everything I could to impress this girl. I figured if I initially came across as half-way  worldly wise she’d look upon me (literally: Margo was tall and I was awaiting my growth spurt) with more than a certain amount of lascivious interest,  ‘Gosh, I’ve never known anyone who takes Latin, say something’. (‘O me miserum,’ came to mind.) So she was a little slow but she made up for that with looks that forced you to take Botany just to be near her.

It was a challenge I’d set for myself, actually. She was ‘pinned’ (this is old school high school, dear reader) to the team’s star quarterback, Tony Tuesday, a sobriquet we’d coined cause he managed his schedule to not have any classes on Tuesday, the day his Dad wasn’t using the car, a convertible no less, so he could cast it to lure young maidens and show them the gears (it was a stick shift). I had this need to move up in the high school social recognition order and what better way to get there than by successfully seducing young Margo? A winning touchdown, to keep the metaphor going.

One problem, I played football with the star quarterback. I wouldn’t put it past old TT, once he found out I was chasing Margo, to feed me to the on-rushing wolves of our main rivals, the nasty Tech Tornadoes whom we were scheduled to play for the championship this coming week.

‘OK guys,’ spat out TT in the huddle with a sneer in my direction, ‘this is a made up play; no need to block, I’ll hand off to squirt here (meaning me, I was still awaiting my growth spurt) and we’ll let his creative juices try to save his skin. On three.’

So I had a week to get Margo on side and TT off side, so to speak. A distraction came to mind. I had to get TT interested in someone else, to forget about Margo and open up the field to yours truly. (I had assumed Margo wouldn’t have time to seek out someone else and not too many guys who played football took Latin.)

Whom (I paid attention in English) to finger for Tony? And then it came to me, TT wouldn’t just take an interest in any girl, it would have to be someone special and that someone special would be Miss Mierzynski, the new phys ed teacher, aka Bouncy Bouncy, fresh out of university. Bingo!

TT would fall like the proverbial ton (this is pre-metric) of bricks if he thought for a minute that BB had the slightest interest in him. How to pull it off?

Well, it turns out, in those days, phys ed teachers had to teach a class besides forcing girls to run around in bloomers. And BB’s class was, get this, hygiene! Everybody took her class; even TT. This was a rapt class; everyone developed a strong interest in the proper way to wash ones hands and repeatedly asked BB to demonstrate, ‘I keep forgetting, do you start with the soap in the left hand or the right hand, can you show me again?’ as the way she did it produced a lot of cleavage.

Next day I hung around after her class. I’d brought in an old reader I’d found in our attic that expounded on the theme ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’ which I was sure would catch her interest. ‘Miss Mierzynski,’ I stammered while idly thumbing through the mint condition pages, ‘I confess this book is just a ruse, I just wanted to catch your attention to discuss another matter; a more serious matter.’ 

I had her full attention. First-year-out-of-university-female-teachers are keen. They’re there to nurture the less well educated. But let’s face it, they’re also sadly outclassed when it comes to competing with the deviousness of testosterone topped-out high school senior males.

‘I’m speaking for Tony,’ I ventured. She nodded, she knew whom (again that English class paying dividends) I was referring to; this was the only class where TT sat in the front row, ‘Tony is a little embarrassed to talk to you about his condition and we need Tony to be at his best for the up-coming football game this Friday.’

She was now totally absorbed, I could see her thinking, ‘Which condition?’ and mentally ticking off the possibilities starting with the A’s (‘Arthritis? Asthma?’  Even skipping back to, ‘Achalasia?’)

‘Tony,’ I continued with a lowering of the head to lend support that my pseudo awkwardness was the real deal; ‘Tony,’ I repeated to add just the right touch of seriousness and, after an interminable pause that had BB leaning closer and blinding me with her headlights, I managed to whisper, ‘has BO.’

Well, you could have knocked her over with a feather (I’ve often wondered how you could do that.) You could sense an immediate disappointment as if she had had a greater challenge in mind. All that late night cramming gone to waste.

‘BO?’ she echoed, leaning back in her chair and slipping into deep thought. ‘Well, that’s not too bad, I think we could help Tony with that. But how does that keep him from playing his best?’

I had the answer, ‘Well, it’s not so much Tony not playing his best but rather the rest of the team playing its best. Those huddles are murder. We’re so distracted we don’t often pay attention to the play he is calling. We can, so to speak, (and here I slowly brought my downcast eyes up to her eye level with a barely suppressed smile), fumble the ball.’

‘I see,’ BB innocently concluded, ‘Well, I’ll speak to Tony and give him my undivided attention; I’m sure I can get him ready for Friday.’

And that, dear reader, is how I conquered Margo. Actually, that’s a little harsh, I consoled her and slowly brought her out of her depressed state. It took some time, fortunately, so I dropped Botony.

‘Now where’s the Christmas in this story’, you ask?

Well Christmas is the time of the year for giving: I helped Margo learn some useful Latin, ‘I know habeus corpus means you shall have the body,’ she said with a wink; our team gave the school a championship and starting in the new year, Miss Mierzynski, the lovely BB, is subbing for my Latin teacher. Ho ho ho and a merry Christmas to you, too.