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The Bay Bridge carried us to the East Bay, because we were hunting for a house to buy. The magnificent scenery surrounding the bridge escaped my awe, as I was driving. Not only that, John was back-seat-driving. He told me where to turn, what lane to get in, how fast to go, and he stream-lined his instruction with sarcasm. “No wonder he has high-blood pressure,” I thought. I felt sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for me.
In the middle of the bridge I’d had it. “John! Who’s driving?” “You are.” “Then leave me alone and let me drive.”
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Marty
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