Benny Jay: Driving While Talking

My Younger Daughter and I are driving over to North and Halsted to pick up a package from a friend.

I pull to the side of the road, get the package, and prepare to drive off, when I get a call on my cell phone from my Older Daughter in Iowa who's in tears cause she only got a C plus on her college term paper.

I tell her to calm down, a C plus is not the end of the world. It's a lot better than, say, a D or an F....

I'm trying to be funny, but she doesn't laugh. Nothing I say consoles her. I can hardly even squeeze in a word, cause she's going on and on about how she wants to be a good writer, but she'll never be a good writer no matter how much she tries -- and she really tries -- and it's soooo unfair!

Meanwhile, my younger daughter, is irritated. "C'mon -- let's go," she says. "I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat...."

So I tell my older daughter: "Look, I gotta get your sister something to eat -- I'll call you back...."

And she says: "She comes first -- she always comes first. You don't care about me...."

"How can you say I don't care about you, I'm listening, right?"

"Oh, thanks," she says, really sarcastically.

I get this idea. My younger daughter -- who has her permit and is learning to drive -- takes the wheel and I sit on the passenger's side. That way we can drive to the restaurant and I can talk to my older daughter.

As my younger daughter grips the wheel and bravely plows ahead, my older daughter goes through her paper. It's about Barack Obama's now-famous campaign speech on race relations. And she's literally reading it line by line: "Reverend Wright put Obama in a tough situation...."

"What do we do now?" asks my younger daughter, as we pull up to the intersection of Halsted and Division.

"Go left," I say.

"What?" asks my older daughter.

"Nothing," I say. "I wasn't talking to you...."

"Are you even listening?"

"Yes, you're talking about Reverend Wright...."

We approach the intersection of Clybourn and Division. "Now, what?" asks my younger daughter.

"Turn left on Clybourn," I say.

"Left?"

"Yes...."

"You got to say it louder," she says.

"Louder?"

"Are you listening to me," asks my older daughter, "or are you listening to her?"

"You -- I'm listening to you. Always. I'm all ears...."

She continues to read her paper about Barack Obama and Reverend Wright.

We approach Southport. "Which way?" asks my younger daughter.

I cover the phone's speaker and say: "Left...."

"Left?"

"I mean, right -- right. God, why do I say left when I mean right?"

"Huh?" asks my older daughter.

I'd taken my hand off the speaker. "Nothing," I say. "It sounds fine...."

"You're not really listening -- you're just saying that...."

I'm starting to get irritated: "I'm listening, for God sakes. It's a fine paper. Don't worry about it. For crying out loud, it's not the end of the world -- it's just one paper. You'll do better next time. Writing is like shooting baskets. The more you do it, the better you'll be...."

"Right?" asks my younger daughter. "Do I go right?"

Now I'm starting to get irritated at her: "Yes, you go right. You know you go right. Why are you even asking directions? You grew up in this town...."

"Don't yell...."

"I'm not yelling...."

"Yes, you are yelling...."

"Are you listening to me?" asks my older daughter.

"Yes -- yes. Practice. Remember, practice...."

She hangs up. My younger daughter pulls behind a dumpster about a half block from where we plan to eat. I scan the sidewalk for no-parking signs. All clear.

I close my eyes and take a breath. God, I need a drink -- and I don't even drink. I step out.

"Are we too far from the curb?" asks my daughter.

"Don't worry," I say. "I can walk to the curb...."

I smile to myself. It's been thirty years since I first saw "Annie Hall," and I'm still stealing lines from Woody Allen....