A Roy story

It would be exaggerating to say that Roy taught me to drive – I had learned the basics already. But it was Roy who saw to it that I got my first driver’s license.

It was 1975, at the end of my first year of graduate school. I was to take a long summer trip across the country. I would travel mostly by Greyhound bus, but was to return with a friend by car from the West Coast and needed to be able to share the driving. I had obtained my learner’s permit. Thoughtful, generous, kind as ever, Roy offered his time and his car to help me pass the road test.

He took me out once or twice for practice, observing me patiently and tactfully. No test appointment was available nearby in Cambridge, so we would have to spend a whole morning going for a test in Roslindale, the other side of Boston. Roy waved aside my apologies for this, though he surely had better things to do with half a day. At the start of the test he climbed into the rear seat, on hand to take over the wheel if I should flunk out.

The car had bench seats. The examiner, a bulky man, was not too impressed with my driving but passed me anyway. As we drove back to Cambridge, Roy let on that he had been anxious during the exam and was relieved it was over. The front seat, he now told me, was broken, and not fixed to the floor on the passenger side. Sitting as straight as he could so as not to attract attention, Roy had spent the entire test firmly gripping the underside of the front seat, hoping that I would not brake too hard or that if I did he would be strong enough to stop the examiner from sliding toward the windshield.