Driving Mad

2 Conversations

Learning to drive

When I turned 16, I did the same thing every other 16-year-old I knew was doing: I acquired a permit and convinced my parents to enroll me in a driver's-ed course. That was the easy part. The hard part was persuading them to let me drive the family car. I felt like a high-wire balancing act as I tottered between convincing them that yes, I had learned plenty and their driver's ed tuition wasn't wasted, but a little
practice in our minivan would help a lot; but no, I drove well and wouldn't smash the car my father used for his daily commute.

In some misguided manner, I must've hoped to wow them with my driving prowess. Fat chance. My mother is the type who signals a turn exactly 100 feet before the intersection. My father — did I mention that he needs the car to get to work? He probably worries more about the car's health then about mine. As for my little sister, Jen, she thought the whole thing was one big comedy show. Just getting into the car was event for dramatics:

'Oh no, Leo's driving?' my mother says. 'Everyone, make sure to buckle up.'

'I forgot to take a Dramamine,' jibes Jen. 'Last time was more exciting than a roller coaster!'

Granted, my mother always tells us to buckle up. But she usually doesn't say it in the same breath as, 'Oh no, your father is driving,' or 'Oh no, I'm driving.'

Knowing there are six eyes watching my every move, I take my time
adjusting the mirrors and seat. Finally, I switch into drive.

'Leo is going to flunk her driving test before she even leaves the curb,' my mother sighs. I frown and recheck my mirrors, seat, dashboard... oh. The seatbelt light is on. Sheepishly I snap on my seatbelt and shift into reverse.

'Are you sure you can make it out?' My mother sounds nervous.

'I've only done it around five times so far,' I retort. 'I might not have got it straight yet!'

I make a big show of looking over my shoulder as I back out of the
driveway. 'Slow down! Check on this side too!' commands my father.

Somehow I make it out of the driveway without hitting any imaginary obstacles. I roll to the corner and announce, 'One... two... three... ' so everyone knows I'm a law-abiding citizen and also read the driving manual. I peer down the street, inching out slowly.

'Look out!' my mother yells. Busy looking down the street for oncoming cars, I'd missed a biker crossing from the other direction.

'He should know better than to ride in front of me,' I grumble, turning. My father mutters something about insurance premiums and teenage drivers. Diplomatically, I ignore it and accelerate down
the street.

'There's a Lexus in front of you,' my father comments. 'If you don't slow down, you'll have to pay for his new rear bumper out of your own pocket.' I slow down.

'Make a fork on Main Boulevard,' my mother directs. She meant make a
left, but I don't know my left from my right, which can be rather
inconvenient when taking driving directions. Luckily, I set the table twice a week and do know which side of the plate gets the fork and which side the knife.

I signal for the turn and begin to make it just how I'd been taught in driver's ed.

'Where are you going?' my mother sounds panicky. 'Turn already!' My father is slightly more calm. 'You might want to turn before you go through the storefront. The owner wouldn't appreciate you ruining the display.'

'For all your information,' I say stiffly, 'I'm avoiding the yellow line. My instructor says that touching it is an automatic failure.' I
execute a textbook turn, which everyone fails to compliment. The light ahead turns yellow.

'You can make the light,' urges my father, 'Speed up!' I obediently floor the gas, though the light is half a block away. 'Never mind,' he says, and then, 'Stop!' I hit the brakes as hard as I dare, run the red and come to a complete stop just beyond the intersection. There is a
massive group inhale in the back seats.

'Well,' my father regains his composure, 'what are you waiting for? You don't have to stop on this side of the red light.' Sulking, I continue driving. Pretty soon I notice that almost everyone is honking and passing me.

'What's the rush?' I yell at a irate SUV swerving around me.

'If you're going to stick to 20mph on Main Boulevard, nobody is going to want to be behind you,' my father explains.

'Well, what's the speed limit?'

'For you? 30.'

I accelerate aggressively, eyes on the speedometer. Bad move.

'Slow down!' both parents yell. I hit the brakes, suddenly noticing the line of cars waiting in front of the red light. My mother is gripping the hand rest with white knuckles. Actually, most of her is white. My father has his hand over his heart and is taking great heaving gasps of air. Faking a heart attack is his cheerful way of letting me know how grievous my offense is. 'Never ever accelerate into a red light!' he gasps, 'You could have hit someone! Or worse, chipped my
fender!'

Jen giggles. 'This is sooo much fun.'

Well at least someone is enjoying themselves. I'm indignant. 'I've never hit anything, ever!'

'There's an angel guarding fools and drunkards,' my father quotes. I know I'm not drunk and I'm pretty sure my father isn't, which means — I decide not to ask which of us is the fool in question. I don't really want to know.

Horns honk. 'When the light is green and there are no immobile cars in front of you, then it is permissible to accelerate; indeed, it is encouraged,' my father explains slowly. Sulking, I drive.

'Stay in your lane,' my mother orders.

'Stay in your lane,' this time from my father.

'Stay in your lane,' my mother again. My father turns to Jen. 'Do you see any flashing lights in the rear window?' I panic. 'Why? I didn't do anything wrong!'

Subtle snort from my mother.

'No, you didn't, but if you keep weaving back and forth like this, we're going to be pulled over for drunk driving.'

I sigh with relief. Unbeknownst to my father, there is a little-known and less-obeyed law that unlicensed drivers may not impose themselves on New York City without an instructor and a second brake. The last thing I needed was to be pulled over.

'Fork on L Street,' says my mother.

'When is that?'

'Next block,' says my father. I put on my blinker.

'No, in two blocks,' my mother corrects. I turn off the blinker.

'I'm sure we just passed "K",' my father insists.

'I think so too,' adds Jen. I turn it back on.

'The sign we just passed said "K Street next",' my mother points out. I turn it off.

'I'm never going to criticize a "woman driver" again,' I mutter. 'They probably all have men in the back seat.' I successfully execute the turn onto L and am immediately faced with a double-parked car.

'Sloooow down, slooow down, slooow down, I said SLOWER,' my father yells, tearing frantically at his beard, 'SLOWER!' as I slide harmlessly past the other car at 15 mph. I grin triumphantly over my shoulder.

'You know you missed that car by about a half an inch?' my father asks, like the calm before the storm.

'A near miss is as good as a mile,' I respond airily, 'Every great
philosopher since the dawn of time said that, so it has to be true.'

'Oh,' he says slowly, digesting this information, 'so you missed that car by a mile?'

'Look out!' My mother's yell draws my attention back to the avenue, where a truck is swerving around a double-parked car and heading right
towards me in my lane. I freeze, mind blank, eyes filled with the white glare of oncoming headlights. My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Absurdly, the only thought in my head is, When they investigate after the accident, they'll find out I'm a student driver and suspend my license! Then suddenly the split second panic is over. I see the truck will make it back into its lane just before coming even with me, but just in case I swerve a little to the right. 'It's OK,' I call cheerily, with a calmness that startles myself, 'I'm looking!'

'That's good,' my father's response is a bit muffled, 'because I'm not.'

'What are you hyperventilating about?' I ask breezily, stopping at a stop sign. 'I've never so much as dented the car, ever, no matter what!'

'There's always a first,' he points out.

'But I wasn't going to crash!' I protest. 'We missed each other.'

'Yeah,' my father admits, 'you missed each other by a mile. What am I getting so worked up about?'

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