Our new car came equipped with a manual transmission.

Wednesday, November 14, 2001

Our new car came equipped with a manual transmission. My wife was equipped to drive only vehicles with an automatic transmission. We had purchased the car with the 4-speed on the floor stick shift because it was cheaper than the models with the automatic transmissions. I remember thinking that it would be a great car because I would be the only one driving it.

Then one morning, my bride, The Queen B, mentioned to me that she would like to learn how to drive a stick shift. I spit out the Tang, an orange juice substitute that I was using to choke down my breakfast toast. I needed the Tang because I am black toast intolerant.

I quickly attempted to change the subject. I said, &uot;Maybe we should go look at huge diamond rings instead? You deserve one the size of Rhode Island and price is no object.&uot; I knew such an offer could cost me a lot of money, but I was trying to save my marriage.

The top three reasons given for marital problems are said to be infidelity, financial problems and remodeling. In my book those three are number two, three and four on the list. The number one cause of divorce in this country today is attempting to teach your spouse to drive a stick shift. I would have been wiser gathering my entire family and having us all appear on The Jerry Springer Show.

The Queen B replied, &uot;A huge diamond would be nice, but I’d have to help pay for it. I would really like to learn how to drive a stick shift.

How hard could it be?&uot; She might as well have asked me to explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity. How hard could it be to teach my wife to drive a stick shift? How hard could it be to floss a polar bear’s teeth? How hard could it be to overhaul an engine on a 747 in mid-flight?

She added, &uot;Well?&uot; She smiled that smile. I remained steadfast in my resolve. She shed a tear.

This unfair act caused me to go against my better judgment and agree to the task. I would have been better off volunteering to lead a bunch of butchers with bacon breath in a shark-teasing contest. I asked her when she would like to start. She answered, &uot;There is no time like the present.&uot;

Actually there were a lot of better times than the present. Never was the first one to come to mind. The Queen B skipped to the garage as I shuffled behind her as though I were headed to my last meal. She jumped behind the wheel.

I was hoping to spend the first lesson just showing her how I drove. I thought some verbal instructions would be in order. I tried to explain the workings of the clutch to a woman who considered a clutch to be a group of eggs that a hen incubated. I showed her how to move the shift lever through its paces. The Queen B tried to find a radio station suitable for learning to drive a stick shift by. The lesson began. The Queen B popped the clutch and killed the car’s engine – over and over again. I began to think that it would be dark before we’d ever get out of the garage.

But my luck wasn’t that good. Off we went stuttering down the street like a centipede walking on hot coals. We terrorized the town for several weeks before The Queen B did her solo voyage. I worried like a cat judging a dog show. I paced the garage floor like I was an expectant father. I watched as the car came jerking into our driveway. The Queen B jumped out of the car, gave me the thumbs up sign and went into the house. I watched as the car shivered in fright from the experience.

The car was never quite the same. It developed a reluctance to start and we spent many a day driving it to and from an automobile psychologist. For years, the neighbors would call me and ask if my wife was going to be driving that day and, if so, what her route would be. That way they could make sure those streets would be cleared of all living things. Our marriage survived. I developed a facial tic. My wife drives an automatic today. I drive a 5-speed manual transmission pickup. It is a pickup that my wife has never driven. We have been married far too long to let a clutch come between us.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.