Fast

He looks like Billy Crystal with a bit of John Leguizamo swagger. He likes to nurse a toothpick in his mouth.  He drives a boat-like Buick and plays Guns N' Roses loud on the stereo.  He's the kind of guy the girls turn to when they want try being bad. He's the kind of guy who can get the fellas alcohol, who will teach you to smoke, who is known to have drugs.

Why the church youth leaders thought he would be a good choice to help drive teens to the water park is a mystery.  Maybe because his car looks safe and his name is Robert, a perfectly ordinary name.  Maybe because he has the appearance of middle-aged stand-up comedian, wears ordinary clothes and has no tattoos. Maybe it's because he's older.  Or maybe they just bought his whole "You look so nice today, Mrs. Cleaver", Eddie-Haskell kiss-up to the grown-ups routine.

Whatever the case, a quartet of us young people are assigned to his car.  A couple of his buddies are transporting kids too, and this is not a good thing. We pile into his car and before we can even consider whether we should buckle up he has floored it, just to let us know how he rolls and to set the bar for his boys.  There's a long trail of tire tracks behind us on the parking lot and the acrid smell of burnt rubber hangs in the air. He takes a hard left at the end of the lot, flinging us against each other and the passenger side door.  We scrabble to buckle up as he careens directly out on to the main drag.  The tires actually squeal. He pumps up "Mr. Brownstone" and flattens the pedal.

The traffic on 436 doesn't allow him to really let loose.  His approach to this is to bear down hard on cars that are going a mere 15 miles over the limit, pump the brakes while he rides their bumper until they either get out of the way or he is able to whip pass them. His car jerks and sways as he applies this version of "stop and go" traffic.  Several times,  I feel the car is going to jerk out of his control and send us crashing into the vehicles he's passing or across the median into oncoming traffic.

 Once we hit the interstate, it seems like there should be less of this but instead it's worse because the speeds at which he is applying his technique are now well north of 80.

Glancing out the window we can see his buddies keeping pace with us; we can just make out the terrified faces of our friends.  Eventually, traffic, as it is wont to do on I-4, slows to a six lane standstill.  At last, we breathe a sigh of relief, he'll have to slow down.

We couldn't have been more wrong. If anything Robert is set free. Without hesitation he swerves over on to the shoulder and guns the engine. With no one in his way, the speedometer rapidly approaches and then passes the 100 mile per hour mark.  The  cars stalled in traffic fly by on our left in a blur.  Robert looks supremely confident, his hand lies carelessly on the wheel. I look back and his friends are right behind us, also barreling down the shoulder.  "Welcome to the Jungle," indeed.

We shoot from the median into the off-ramp, forcing other cars to pull to the side to  make room for us.  We are going far too fast to hear their horns or see their upraised middle-fingers.  We buck and rock our way down International Drive until we roar into the parking lot of the water park.

By the time the bus with the main group of youth pulls up sedately at the front gate, we've been waiting there for twenty minutes.  Robert discreetly puts out the cigarette he's been smoking and puts on his best smarmy grin.

"Wow, Robert, you got here fast," the pastor declares.

"Oh, I know a back way," he says with a wink in our direction. "By the way, Pastor I really did enjoy your sermon this past Sabbath."

"Why thank you, Robert.  And thanks for bringing the kids."

"Oh, my pleasure, Pastor.  Any time."

I start making plans to be on the bus when it's time to go home.