Indeed, learn to drive in this car also probably qualified me to captain Cleopatra's barge. It was that big. The passenger side of the car was in another area code. You could easily stretch out on the back seat without bending your legs. I suppose that a driver's education in this u-boat essentially ramped up my ability to drive a car of any size. But, still, whenever I got behind the wheel, I couldn't help but remember....
...this was Dad's car.
Most kids these days count the days to the birthday when they can get their learner's permit and start the process to become motorists. I was no different. I jumped on the chance to take the written exam and I aced it. That learner's permit was in my pocket before the ink on my sixteenth birthday cards was dry.
Except, once I could legally get behind a wheel, I didn't. Was it fear of driving? Or a fear of intruding into my father's sacred lair? Either way, the permit yellowed in my wallet as I was apparently in no hurry to learn how to turn an ignition.
Ironically, my father is the one who first broached the notion of putting me behind a wheel. We started with very tiny baby steps. There was an isolated road down by the smelly Pelham Bay creek. On warm summer nights, the air there made you vomit. But, that is where I first hit a gas pedal. I drove no more than 50 feet. There was about six months of that exercise. The humid July evenings morphed into crisp November weekend afternoons. And there I was...driving the Skylark the same fifty feet.
Eventually, I graduated to another training ground. One Sunday, we were out "visiting the relatives" at Woodlawn Cemetery in the Bronx. After saying "hi" to Grandpa, my father surprised the shit out of me.
"Get behind the wheel."
Okay. Fifty feet?
"No, we can go further. For a while."
Really? Now? Why here?
"It's the perfect place. You can't kill anybody. They're already dead."
Oh.
And so I went. Way beyond fifty feet. Essentially, we slowly tooled all around Woodlawn. Up hills, down hills, around curves, on straightaways. It was one big training ground for me. And that was my next level of driver's education.
And there we stayed for the next six months. Motoring through the nooks and crannies of Woodlawn Cemetery. And, then, one Sunday, another shock from Dad. We were zipping along one side of the place when he announced that he wanted to go home. Okay. I offered to pull over.
"No, that's okay. You can drive home."
Gulp. Outside these gates, there are real people. And they're alive.
I steeled myself and headed to the Webster Avenue gate. Oh, my God! Traffic.
It was no more than a ten minute drive. But, it seemed like an eternity. And I seemed to hit every red light along the way. Shit.
Now that I was out amongst the motorists of the Bronx, I stayed there. For another six months. The same trip. From Woodlawn to 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon. In retrospect, it was the best...and longest way to get the feel of commandering this tank.
I don't remember if there was an official announcement but, at some juncture, I was pronounced fit to go for my road test. Although, unless the exam was being given inside Woodlawn, I would be petrified. No such luck. In Westchester during those days, the Department of Motor Vehicles gave their road tests on Vredenburgh Avenue in Yonkers behind what used to be Nathan's. Naturally, my examiner was a fat Black woman.
"Yall make a right at da corner."
Yes, ma'am.
"Where all is your blinkers?"
Right here, ma'am.
"Yuz bin drivin' long?"
Don't you have any relatives buried in Woodlawn? Apparently not, because then you would know the answer to that question.
I passed. As I beamed with pride, the examiner went off to have her third hot dog of the morning.
My father, as usual, didn't say much. He never did. But, I'm sure that he was proud. His two year-long driver's education class had paid off.
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Hamburger at Boho.
1 comment:
Was the driving instructor Hattie McDaniel?
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