Man in blue.

Dear Matthew,

Itís my fault. No, really, it is.

Do you remember sitting in momís car waiting for that two hundred and fifty pound trooper with his crewcut, and face hacked out of granite? The guy who barely fit in the passengerís seat. And do you remember all of my helpful questions to prepare you for your driving test?

ìMatt, how far from a stop sign are you legally required to stop?î

ìShuutup, youíre freaking me out!î

ìMatt, how far from an intersection should you engage your turn signals?î

ìShuutup, youíre freaking me out. Donít ask me questions you donít have the answers to.î

ìShouldnít you know the answers?î

ìIíll tell you how many. Itís, shuuttt the hell up, number of feet. Thatís how many.î

If mom had taken you for your driverís test, sheíd have left the teasing at home, and asked sensible questions. As I should have. She would have asked you what your friends had problems with, and you certainly would have remembered that Julie, too, drove right through that tricky red light. The one without an intersection, the one thirty feet before the red light, with a very busy intersection.

Not passing that test is a blip, but what is not a blip is the respect your adult friends (you know the list, we had dinner with most of them last night) have for you. Those that love and know you best, were flabbergasted that you came home without your license. Had I claimed the earthís magnetic poles flipped, they would have said, ìOkay.î But no one could believe that you didnít pass it. Like it or not, you got a rep, boy.

Love,

Dad