Author: James Flanagan

Iain opened the car door for his father, Tom, inviting him to exit.
“Three decades I worked for those uncouth S.O.B.s,” Tom muttered. “I raised you kids…of all the betrayals…”
“I’ve heard great things about this retirement home,” Iain said, pleading with his father to step out of the car. “It’s affordable…”
Tom eventually stepped out. “Thank you Driv… Oh.” Tom reached in but found the seat empty.
“Floox taxis haven’t had drivers for years, Dad.” Iain placed his hand on Tom’s shoulder and carried his bags up the steps.
The lobby smelt as if the flowery carpet had been shampooed with calamine lotion. Sitting at the wide bay windows were two old ladies that looked as stuffed as the cushions they sat on. An overly cheerful lady greeted them.
“You must be Tom. Welcome. You drove for Floox didn’t you?”
Tom shook his head. The smell was wrong, the silence was wrong, the walls were stifling, and Iain was smiling at the devil woman as if he had made a deal to hand him over. This couldn’t be *home*.
“They made me redundant.” Tom scowled.
“Dad, you have to sign this form to receive the subsidy.” Iain offered a pen.
Their suspicious motto adorned the page. “Nothing Cheaper, Nothing Better: Floox!”
Tom sighed and signed it.
After settling in, the calamine devil woman introduced Mr. Dimble. “This is our Head Master.”
“Our what?”
Dimble led Tom to an open plan classroom. Several seats were occupied, each wrinkled face hidden beneath a helmet and visor.
“You signed the non-disclosure agreement, didn’t you?” Dimble asked.
“I signed something.” Tom scratched his head.
“This is our school for the gifted,” Dimble continued, “for those who have been gifted to us. Please take a seat.” Dimble placed a helmet and visor over Tom’s head.
A virtual world descended on him, like a curtain being dropped over his eyes. Materializing around him was a vehicle of some sort and a steering wheel.
“Over the next few weeks, I will teach you how to drive our Floox cars. Do you understand? There is no such thing as self-driving cars. We pilot them all from here. No one drives smoother than an octogenarian.”
Tom tried levering the helmet off, but his arthritic fingers were no match for the magnetic clip fastened at his chin.
By the end of the first day, he had mastered steering, speed control, and navigation. There were no physical requirements as the controls were all mental, think “accelerate”, and accelerate, think “brake”, and stop. By the third day, he was completing full journeys. Once he got the hang of it, it was kind of fun. He tried dropping the clutch and spinning in a donut to see if it was allowed. Mr. Dimble’s hand on his shoulder said otherwise.
“I don’t think your customer will have enjoyed that.”
“Customer?”
“You have been driving customers all day.”
After a full week, Mr. Dimble said, “Tom you’re a natural. Have you ever thought of flying planes? Our Auto-Pilot program is always looking for new blood.”