Carol’s Column

Who says every mom has to suffer? The traffic department

HELP. I am a prisoner in a car. But I am not the only one.

Miriam Pasvol is also a prisoner in her car.

Incarcerated against our wills, both of us are captive passengers of our newly-turned 17-year-old learner licence recipients — one Lauren Pasvol of the blonde hair and great determination and one Jamie Lazar of light brown and sunlight soap-streaked blonde hair and equal determination.

We commiserated together the other night as we sat at dinner and watched our teenage offspring fuel their innards in order to give themselves more energy with which to drive our cars.

"I can't take it," said Miriam miserably. "Every time I just look at my little white Cortina, Lauren is there, as quick as a flash, in the passenger seat, eyes wide, teeth flashing, ready to drive me anywhere."

I sympathised. "After 16 years of total indifference to my every whim, Jamie has suddenly become the most attentive, helpful individual around," I said.

"I just have to mention that I need something and I have an instant volunteer. And, before you can say 'no', like a slab of heavy concrete, Jamie is implanted in my car, in the driver's seat, the engine revving."

We shook our heads in mutual sorrow.

"It's so nerve-wracking," said Miriam. I could only agree.

The dessert arrived before we could commiserate further.

In the two weeks since Jamie has received his learner's licence, a rim of white hair has suddenly spouted forth on my apprehensive skull. The result of sheer shock.

Meanwhile, on the home front, things are tense. "Dammit, I'm out of bread," I mutter to myself.

"Ma, don't worry, I'll drive you up to the cafe to fetch some," says Jamie with a willing grin on his face.

Before I can take a breath, my third youngest unmarried son is sitting behind the wheel of my car.

This, I have to keep reminding myself, is the same son who cannot find the energy to place his dirty washing in the washbasket, who is exhausted when he has to get up for school and who develops severe elbow aches when it's his turn to feed the dogs.

This is the same person who told me only recently that cleaning the swimming pool was against his religious principles.

Jamie has perfected the gentle start. He takes off smoothly with not a jolt or a judder. This in turn creates a sense of false security within my motherly breast because we have no sooner got to the corner when his hand snakes away from the wheel and begins messing with the tapes.

"Jamie, keep your hands on the wheel, I'll put a tape in," I screech. I am distressed, you understand.

"Oh, Ma, relax," says Jamie as he proceeds to find a sound with which to blast my eardrums.

"I can't concentrate," I say desperately, watching the road ahead. "Watch it, watch it, there's a truck coming."

"Ma, that's a Mini."

He changes the tape, his hands fiddling while I get heartburn. Just then a car draws up beside us. It is driven by what could be Miriam Pasvol's 17-year-old blonde luscious learner licence daughter.

My son pulls down his window and chats up the young lady who is not unwilling to be chatted up. Behind us cars begin to hoot.

"Impatient drivers are dangerous," says Jamie selfrighteously as he shoots off burning rubber and causing my heart to stop beating for several minutes.

He takes a corner decidedly unslowly.

"Jamie, slow down, slow down," I screech, yet again.

"Ma, do you want to drive?" says Jamie in his wounded James-Dean-nobody-understands-me voice.

I have developed shock jaw of the vocal cords so cannot reply "yes". I nod my head vigorously.

"Ma, you're twitching," says Jamie.

I remind myself that this is my son with a criminal record who at the age of 13 was arrested for recklessly driving a motorised go-cart at the Zoo Lake. The go-cart contained a powerful lawnmower motor, four wheels, a steering wheel and Jamie. What it did not contain was safety belts, a roadworthy licence, lights and a licensed driver.

We were lucky the traffic officer had a sense of humour. He let Jamie off with the threat that he'd confiscate his go-cart if he caught him again. I spent three months looking for that cop to bribe him to carry out his threat.

I am entitled to twitch.

We get to the cafe and I contemplate flying home but unfortunately SAA doesn't fly the Rosebank-Parkwood route which means that once more I find myself incarcerated in my motor car with my keen, enthusiastic learner driver son.

By the time we get home, Jamie has changed the tape five times, fast forwarded it seven times and scratched his head at least four times, each action requiring him to remove his hands from the wheel.

My home-made Nigel Mansell of the tarmac steers the car niftily and with great aplomb into the carport missing Henry the Hog and the poles by one centimetre.

"Aren't you lucky that I can drive now?" he says cheerfully as he switches off the engine with a final, vigorous jerk.

And PW Botha thinks he's got problems?

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