Elderly drivers and the slimy car dealers who hire them

The BBQ Pit
1

It’s a beautiful Monday morning and Mrs. Scribe and I are driving to the paint store on a well-traveled two-lane country road. We are northbound.

Up ahead I see a car attempting to pass another vehicle, heading southbound. Initially unconcerned I proceed, but then notice that the approaching car doesn’t seem to be passing, just keeping steady with the car it’s attempting to pass, all the while looming larger in the windshield.

“Shit,” says I to Mrs. Scribe, “I don’t think he’s going to get over.”

A little more concerned I slow, still thinking that he’ll either pass the other guy or give up and fall back behind him.

“Shit,” again, says I to Mrs. Scribe. “He’s not getting over.”

Deftly, I manuever the Scribemobile to the shoulder, slam my hand against the horn and drop my jaw as this wonderfuck continues to motor past in my lane.

Here’s what I notice as he zips past me and as I wheel around and make my pursuit:

  • Eldery male drive who can barely see over the steering wheel.
  • Dealer plates on the car.

Well, obviously, what we have here is a idiot on a test drive. I follow for a few miles, horn blaring trying to get Mr. Magoo to pull over so we can have a word. Not surprisingly, he continues on, obliviously.

Needing to vent at someone, I figure I’ll turn around, go to the dealer and ask him why he’s allowing The Golden Git to drive his nice car.

We arrive at the dealer, find the dealership owner and request information about the colostomate who was test driving the car.

Mr. Dealer, who was wearing a garish Hawaiian shirt that Don Ho would have burned with the nearest Tiki torch, responds. “Oh, that’s not a customer, that’s one of our drivers.”

“An employee. Oh, even better,” I mumble to myself.

The rest of the conversation is a blur. Yes, I raised my voice, but, no, I never once uttered a word my sainted grandmother would have blushed at. Well, until Cal Worthlessington called me an asshole for raising my voice in the sanctity that is the American car dealership.

I was then asked to leave.

But this is what I was saying as I drove away.

"Listen, you shitcar-dealing, old-man-felching, Hawaiian-Punchdrunk piece of poodleshit, I saved you a good chunk of money today by avoiding a wreck with your AARPee-stained excuse for a driver.

"I don’t care if the state gave him a license, you’re an idiot for giving Grampa Jones a job as a driver. This idiot can’t see past the windshield wipers, and you’ve put him at the controls of 2,000 pounds of Ford disengineering on the same roads my kids drive and ride bikes on.

"I wouldn’t trust this guy when he passes wind, and you’re letting him put your Ford Porous into overdrive to pass other vehicles, forcing games of blind chicken with other drivers.

"My wife bought her truck here and has spent a good deal of money in your repair shop. Do I need to tell you that your Goober Pyles have seen the last of the underside of that truck? (The same wastes of 10W40 who fucking forgot to put coolant in the radiator when we had it flushed five years ago.)

"And the next time you put one of those giant fucking inflatable Godzilla or cowboys or bloated Elvis balloons in front of your lot, I’m taking my trusty Ginzu to them, and wrapping the nearest SUV in deflated Barney the Dinosaur.

“I hope your driver’s Depends leak all over your fine Corinthian leather.”

Cripes.

Then on the way to work, some dipshit in a Department of Transportation truck cut me off.

2

You saved that for when you were driving away? Why not get the good bit in before you got kicked out?

I went in for a job interview at one of the local megadealerships. I got there early, and then had to wait for almost an hour after the interview was supposed to be, then didn’t get the job. Bastards.

For scary drivers, I knew a worked with a nightmare group. It was a pyrotechnic distributor, and they used large cargo vans to move pyro between bunkers and to customers. Every single van had dents and it’s mirrors replaced at least once. One was run off the road when the driver was under the influence.

I was apparently the only one there who could drive a van full of explosives without running into anything, a very scary concept.

3

Oh good lord. All the way up to the eleventh paragraph, I kept thinking, “He must mean ‘dealers who hire TO them’”. As in car-rental offices that will rent to anyone.

But they’re paying this guy to drive around. :eek:

JonScribe, there must be some higher authority to whom you can take this. Well, the DMV, for starters, and the local police. This is not a matter of Grampa getting on your nerves by Sunday-driving; he blatantly courted an accident. Report it. Now.

4

I have to wholeheartedly agree with the OP. My grandfather became a driver for a car dealer after retiring. (Didn’t really need the money, just wanted the extra cash.) The problem? They kept him employed driving cars years after he became a danger to others. The man had heart trouble, respiratory problems, cancer, memory trouble, and couldn’t stand up without help…yet he was still driving cars for the dealership. At this point, he had gotten lost mere blocks from home more than once and was failing to recognize lifelong friends on the street.

This was okay in grandpa’s mind because my grandmother went with him–a woman with heart problems also, and who my cousin informed us was having “black out” periods, where she couldn’t remember where she’d been or what she’d done.

Of course, they both had (and still have, I think) valid drivers’s licenses.

They refused to give them up for a very, very long time. And no one–not their children nor the DMV–would make them. And the dealership kept Gramps on as long as he wanted to work.

Grandpa finally gave up his job when he became physically unable to drag himself to work anymore, after having a recurrence of cancer and suffering congestive heart failure.

Grandma had a stroke a few years ago and now can barely see.

Not only should these dealers be shot, but I think maybe oldsters should have to get licenses renewed every year, and then only with a doctor’s certification, or something.

This situation is absurd. I always thought my family would have enough sense and sensitivity to try to avert a situation like this, in which innocent people could easily be killed by Gramps keeling over behind the wheel, but apparently, many folks, even “decent, thoughtful types”, are willing to sweep this kind of thing under the carpet in the interest of maintaining family harmony.

(Sorry if this rant doesn’t have enough swear words, but I just took a Vicodin and you’re lucky if it’s coherent. Off to sleep I go…)

5

I reported it to our local sheriff’s office, but just on my own complaint they can’t cite the driver. However, the deputy went and talked to the dealer and told him that it was probably in his interest to drive with this guy a couple of times and maybe tell him to hang it up.

Dealer later told my wife that this guy has been driving for the dealership for 15 years, and said, “Well, he probably didn’t realize he’d done anything wrong.”

Really? All the more reason to tell grampa to take the bus. Sheesh.

6

Yes. I was in the DMV getting my license (for the first time at 29, so I was a real stickler for the rules and passing everything, etc.) when this elderly gentleman was having his eye test. I assume this meant he was over 80, since that’s probably when they start retesting around here. He obviously couldn’t see with any of the pairs of glasses he had with him and was tentatively saying letters which bore only a slight resemblacne to the ones on the chart. The DMV employee (who was actually very good otherwise, unlike many a DMV worker) fed him the right letters and let him pass! Needless to say, it was frightening to see him trundle back outside and get behind the wheel of his Cadillac boat.