There we were in Dad’s 1986 Saab, in the deserted parking lot of the local community college on a Sunday afternoon. The blacktop went on forever in every direction.
I was in the driver’s seat, clutching the black steering wheel with sweaty palms.
“Okay, go ahead. You give it some gas and just ease out the clutch.”
Oops, stalled it.
Naturally I was learning to drive on a stick shift. Naturally we weren’t going to take the easy way out and just have me learn on an automatic. Noooooo; that would be too easy; it wouldn’t be the real experience.
“Okay, fine, fine, just try it again,” Dad said.
Shit, stalled it again.
“Uh, maybe, like, how much gas do I give it? Can I do it by RPMs?” I said, looking at the tachometer, hoping for some sort of guide to lead me through the fog.
“No don’t look at that. I want you to do it by feel,” Dad said.
Oops, stalled it again.
Dad was getting frustrated now. My hands trembled on the steering wheel.
Okay I’m really doing it this time!
I gave it a lot of gas and let out the clutch and we lurched forward and I was driving! Just cruising right along in the vast deserted parking lot on an early autumn afternoon.
When I came to the end of the row I maneuvered the car to the left.
“TURN YOUR LEFT BLINKER ON!” Dad yelled, veins popping from his neck, though we were the only car for miles.
And not that I knew where the left blinker was.
“What? What?!” I said, and started to cry.
“Okay, maybe that’s enough for today,” he said, nodding.
But the next week we were at it again, sitting in the Saab on a quiet farm road near my high school. This time he took it upon himself to wax poetic about the dangers of all the stupid drivers out there.
“You’ve gotta be defensive,” he said, nodding emphatically as he said it. “You’ve gotta be afraid. Be afraid every moment you’re out there.”
My eyes got huge and wide.
“Okay, ready?” he said.