Learning to Drive

Dad took me for a driving lesson today. It was one of those rare occasions when we were alone together without the menial distractions of television or radio drowning out the awkwardness and with it, any chance of conversation.

We were on some standard Irish back road parallel to the motorway and we were making our way home. Dad asked me to pull over and stop the car. This was routine so I did what I was told and stopped in a gateway to a field. There was a canopy of branches intertwining overhead and it was darker here.

"I want you to promise me something."

Oh Jesus. A deep meaningful conversation with Dad -- they invariably end in a vitriolic religious debate or with me inappropriately laughing for no reason (although apparently it is an actual medical condition! The world is pretty fucked if even laughing is classified as an illness).

"Promise me you'll stop smoking."

Now, at this point I'd like to clarify that I am not a smoker -- not a habitual one at least. I might have one or two in the night if I'm having a particularly bad day. I get pretty wound up sometimes.

"I've already lost two people in my family to cancer."

Okay, fair enough, they were two dark periods in our lives. But he doesn't understand. Smoking is actually quite an important part of my life. I like going outside in the depths of the night and catching up with my old friends. We ruminate upon the day that has just past and consider the larger picture. The moon is quite an intellectual, you know.

I can't seem to do this without a cigarette in my hand. It's probably due to my short attention span, or Freud's theory on oral fixation, or both. But it's mainly because it relaxes me and slows my thoughts down enough that I can reach out and pick one from my mind and dissect it. I like to turn it around, study it from every angle. To really understand an idea or a thought you have to learn everything about it; become friends with it; learn what makes it tick; learn what it hates, who it loves. When I'm not outside smoking my thoughts race by too quickly and I don't have the time nor the energy to catch one. Sad, perhaps, but I haven't yet learnt to control my thoughts. I'm just one guy, struggling in a sea of consciousness, trying not to drown. I'm waiting for a passing boat to spot me and pull me aboard.

Dad's hand felt smaller and coarser than I remembered. There was no laughter this time. I shook it, and made a promise.