My dad is not a real talker. I mean, he talks, just not as much (or as fast) as some of the others in my family. When we were growing up, I remember my mom telling him to turn off the radio when driving with one of us kids. If the radio wasn't singing then the communication became possible.
Driving my son around today, he led the following conversation:
He: What would you do if the person behind you was trying to kill you?
Me, completely confused at the question: Wha . . . who . . . wher . . . I . . . what are you talking about?
He: What is your game plan if the person behind you tries to kill you?
Me: Well . . . um . . . OK. That is too broad of a question. Am I walking? Is he in a car? How is he trying to kill me? Why is he after me? Is it daylight?
He: Right now. Think on your feet. You are driving. He is behind you and he's shooting. What do you do?
Me: Wa . . . I . . . drive faster.
He: Mom! He's right behind you. What do you do?
Me, realizes that I'm not getting out of this and starts to play along: Well, I drive fast enough that I can loose him in the side streets. Then I go to the police station.
He, an eyebrow raised in doubt: Mom. Do you really think you could outrun a killer in this car?
Our speedster is a fourteen year old minivan. Fast. Really.
Me: First I do this (explain for a while). Then I do that (explain for a while). Then (getting into it now), I go like this (explain excitedly, thinking I have come up with a great plan)!!
My heart pounds a little and my breathing has accelerated as a result of my imagined, but nonetheless fabulous, slip from harm. For the duration of my narration, I was Jason Borne . . . in a fourteen year old minivan . . . driving 25 on residential roads. Still! That was good!
He, flatly: You're dead.
He, looking out the window: I need to install a defense system on this car.
He, after a momentary pause: Mom. You've been kidnapped. What do you do?
I turned on the radio.