'The Safety Expert' Excerpt: Part 2

(Part 1 of “The Safety Expert” series)

Ben treasured the time with the girls. While stuck in the conga line of cars he would spin vintage rock tunes for them, quiz them for their tests, arbitrate petty feuds, and play silly word association games.

And Ben had decided to expand what had formerly been a once-a-week event for him into a daily routine. At least, for the short term. It gave Alex a break from the drive, and Ben another way to reconnect with his adopted family.

“If you were a flavor, what would you be?” asked Ben. Elyssa was first to answer because, well, she was always first. The oldest girl
reserved that privilege along with sitting up front in the passenger seat. She always took her time and turn seriously, knowing she would be setting the bar high with her answer.

“Chocolate Fudge Brownie,” said Elyssa, grinning broadly while looking to Ben for his secret wink of approval.

“Okay, Nina’s turn,” said Ben, withholding judgment.


Nina started with her usual “Ummmm.” Because lately, Nina started every answer with an “Ummmm.” “Ummmm,” mocked Elyssa.

“Ben!”

“Teasers will lose their turns,” Ben reminded.

“Ummmm,” began Nina, once again.

While Elyssa bit her lip, Ben reviewed the morning’s drive. Simi Valley had dried out nicely since the rains. Beneath the golden scrub that blanketed the surrounding hills, Ben had detected a green undergrowth. A good sign, he thought. Green wild grasses significantly reduced the chance of the seasonal brushfires of fall and the mudslides of spring.

“Ummmmm, Cherry Garcia.”

“Really,” said Ben. “Why?”

“Because she’ll say anything to sound different,” mumbled Elyssa.

“Because I like it!” argued Nina.

“Then name one Grateful Dead song,” said Elyssa.

“It’s not about a song,” said Ben. “It’s about a flavor.”

“And I’m a Cherry Garcia,” said Nina. “It’s like eating something tie-dye.”

“Doesn’t anybody want to know my flavor?” asked Betsy.

“I do,” said Ben, squinting into the rearview mirror. The Volvo was angled east to west, allowing the morning sun to strike squarely in the middle of the back window. Ben slipped down his shade then twisted the mirror so he could meet Betsy eye-to-eye.

“Okay. I have lots of flavors that I am. Favorite flavors and fun flavors and ones I like because they remind me of Johnny.”

“Johnny who?” asked Ben.

“Johnny Crismani,” chimed Nina, “Betsy’s boyfriend du jour.”

“Is not!”

“Du jour?” asked Ben, amused at Nina’s faux command of adult vernacular.

“I only sit next to him,” said Betsy.

“I’m looking for your flavor?” reminded Ben.

“I’m Rainbow Sherbet, of course,” said Betsy.

“Of course,” added Nina. “Didn’t we all know?”

“Because of all the things you love,” answered Ben for her.

“Okay. Ben’s turn,” prompted Elyssa.

“Too old to be a flavor,” said Ben.

“No you’re not,” said Nina. “Everybody’s a flavor.

“I’m not a flavor,” said Ben. “I’m an acquired taste.”

“That’s what Mom says,” said Elyssa.

“And Mom would know,” said Ben.

“I know,” volunteered Betsy. “You’re Rainbow Sherbet, too.”

“Fine. Betsy said it,” shrugged Ben. “I’m Rainbow Sherbet, too.”

“Not fair,” said Elyssa. “You have to come up with your own flavor or we’ll give you one.”

“Okay, then,” said Ben. “Give me one. Betsy already says I’m Rainbow Sherbet. What do you think I am?”

“Ummmmm,” said Nina.

“Vanilla,” piped in Elyssa with a somewhat cutting understanding the flavor’s social significance.

“That’s what I was gonna say!” said Nina, disappointed her sister beat her to the punch. “But not because vanilla is vanilla. Because everybody likes it.”

“Is there vanilla in Rainbow Sherbet?” asked Ben, hoping to be saved by either Betsy or the miracle of moving traffic.

“I don’t know,” said Betsy. “But vanilla’s okay with me, too.”

“Not even with chocolate sauce and nuts?” asked Ben.

“Sundaes aren’t flavors,” said Elyssa, sounding every bit the know-it-all.

And so it went. Two straight weeks of Ben driving his three adopted amigas to the Simi Canyons School, queuing up on Tierra Rejada with all the other private-school parents, partaking in the daily traffic jam, dropping the girls off with kisses and a “have a nice day,” then not-so-promptly swinging onto the eastbound 118. Nearly each winter day was identical, a slight breeze from the west, and seventy-one degrees Fahrenheit.

Identical too was the order of freeway exits and interchanges. Like ticks on a clock, clicking all the way down to zero. Zero being where Ben stayed in one of the left-hand lanes, past where the southbound I-5 connected with the 170. After that, it was maybe ten minutes to the front door of his office. Ben could almost smell the hot coffee. And maybe, if he was lucky, Josie would have bought him some kind of pastry. A simple success, Ben decided. All temptation and curiosity would be averted for another day. His life was back on track.

Moving on.

But, if Ben were to let temptation flower–if while on the I-5 he were to inexplicably veer into the right-turn lanes, arch over the flood-control channels and find himself traveling south on the 170–he would quickly be mere moments from the Burbank Boulevard exit.

North Hollywood. Home of Stew Raymo. As days passed, this became both Ben’s figurative and literal crossroad. He would safely move along at the mean traffic speed, beginning his countdown as the 118 Freeway lifted him over the 405. Glancing to the distant north, he could see the water that fed the San Fernando Valley cascading down the California Aqueduct.

Turning his gaze south, Ben could see thousands of daily commuters and truck drivers from places like Santa Clarita, Lancaster and Bakersfield, each waiting for his turn to merge onto the southbound San Diego Freeway.

Continuing eastbound, Ben would position himself in the centermost traffic lane, intently focused on keeping each wheel equidistant from the neat rows of Botts’ Dots–those round, raised markers created by Dr. Elbert Botts, a California Department of Transportation engineer, as a warning system to sleepy or wandering drivers. “A genius invention,” Ben would often remark, always crediting the man who, in many estimations, had saved tens of thousands of lives. When a car’s tires ran over a row of Botts’ Dots, the one-inch bumps delivered a distinctive, staccato vibration through the drivetrain to the steering wheel, and into the hands of the drifting driver.

Only when Ben had securely fixed his sights on staying dead in the middle lane, could he actually sense that he was straddling the line between his future and his past. Stay left and his pledge to Alex would be kept. Slide right and the promise would be shattered. Left. Ben was moving on. Right. A giant leap into his primeval past. Left. Ben could taste his own limp flavor. Vanilla. Right. Ben could taste blood.

So it was that on Friday, March 7 at exactly 8:32 a.m, four months and six days since he had first listened to that scratchy, dying voice utter Stew Raymo’s name, Ben Keller decided that he would do something dumb and patently foolish. An act absolutely detrimental to the stitches that held his soul intact. As the 5/170 interchange approached, Ben chose to let fate–or God–decide which direction his life should take. And with that… Ben took his hands off the steering wheel.

Whether it was the imperceptible canter of the road or the car’s alignment or the slight wear on the treads of his Michelin steel-belted radials or even a meager gust of wind from the north, Ben would never, ever know the true cause. But the car lingered to the right.

Only when the right front tire came in clear contact with Dr. Elbert Botts’ Dots did Ben resume control of the vehicle. Then, without thought or true clarity of purpose, Ben instinctively clicked his right turn indicator, checked his mirrors, and entered the lanes designated for the 170 south.

Hell-bound, he thought. Jesus God help me.

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