Driving Test Debacle
by Ralph Nieves-Bryant
Posted: February 20, 2006
I grew up in the slums of New York City, where
a car was as necessary as a dreidel at a Kwaanza party. And as one
of the overworked and underpaid huddled masses, if I had a car,
it would mean choosing between paying for it and eating solid foods.
Not to mention that if the destabilization of the Middle East continued,
I would have to pay for gas with bars of gold bouillon.
However, at the age of 35, I decided it was time I got my license.
There were many reasons. The New York City Transit System was falling
apart faster than a Joan Rivers face lift and I grew tired of leaving
it to Greyhound when I went away for long weekends. And, perhaps
most importantly, I needed to appropriately prepare for my midlife
crisis when I blow my entire 401K on an Italian sports car (‘cuz
that’s what the young girls like).
I began my quest by scheduling some lessons at the driving school
closest to my home. The Broadway Driving School was a typical Harlem
storefront business, with one specific exception. The school featured
a thick fiberglass window probably stolen from some unassuming savings
and loan and purchased on the notorious fiberglass black market.
An unfortunate beige paint, which probably came free with an oversized
purchase of spackle from the local Costco, colored the walls. The
walls were also littered with an assortment of thank you letters
from newly licensed drivers, pictures of cars driven into swimming
pools (which was either a scare tactic or “proof” of
their teaching skills) and their rate card--$25 for one lesson and
$250 for 10--guess no one ever heard of a volume discount.
My first clue that this might not go well should have been that
the Broadway Driving School was not actually located on Broadway,
but six blocks away on Eighth Avenue. I figured it was my duty to
correct this curiosity so I mentioned it to Casey, who was the office
manager, janitor and house DJ.
“Hey, did you guys know you are not located on Broadway?”
I said, sounding like a sarcastic non-driving troublemaker.
“Yeah, sorry about that. People always think we are on Broadway,”
Casey replied. Wow! I wonder how that could happen, I thought.
“We figured using Broadway in the name would make the school
more recognizable.” Oh, I see. I guess someone else was
already using the Rev. Al Sharpton Driving School as their name.
“Gotcha,” I replied, as if it made complete sense to
me. There was nothing more to say and I had already paid for my
lessons. I was stuck.
“Let me take you outside to introduce you to Desmond, your
instructor. Then you’ll be off for your first lesson.”
We walked outside and I quickly noticed a burgundy car with no
apparent dents, which I took as a good sign. Desmond was sitting
in the passenger seat, reading an article about the birth of a panda
in China.
“Des, this is Ralph. He has a ten-lesson package. Take care
of him.”
“Ya, man,” Desmond said, intently finishing the panda
article. Casey pointed to the driver’s side of the car and
I walked around and got in.
“So what do you want to get out of this?” asked Desmond.
Was this a trick question? “Well, I’d like
to learn how not to kill myself behind the wheel. Then maybe I can
get my license.”
“Okay, we can do that. Let’s start the car and see
what you can do.”
I took a good look at Desmond and determined he had never met a
tooth brush or Dentist that he liked, as his four remaining teeth
strained to hold on to his gums by the thinnest of nerves. There
was also an aroma, resembling freshly baked poop, which flooded
the car every time he spoke. This made it hard to focus on driving.
Des settled back in the seat, his laidback Caribbean demeanor seemingly
too comfortable since he was riding with a guy whose previous driving
experience consisted of the bumper cars at Coney Island and a Salvation
Army-purchased Big Wheel. The Big Wheel was totaled in a horrific
collision with a Green Machine in the manic traffic of the Grand
Concourse sidewalks. Surprisingly, this experience did not quite
prepare me for driving on the mean streets of New York City traffic.
Desmond popped up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Didn’t
you see that stop sign?” I thought he had fallen into a narcoleptic
state. But I would soon learn that no matter how knocked out he
was, Des always woke up before I did something stupid, like run
into a lamp post that had the nerve to disobey the traffic laws.
“Sorry. I thought it was a suggestion,” I dejectedly
replied. His face made it clear he did not think I was funny. I
stopped in the middle of the road and hung my head in shame.
“What are you doing? You can’t stop here! Keep going!”
“Okay,” Terrified, I carefully drove away, trying to
ignore the barking of a gas guzzling SUV that seemed ready to eat
my burgundy Plymouth.
“And pick up the speed. You are driving like a little old
lady.” Dude, why don’t you go back to sleep!
“Okay.” I never thought I would be compared to a 90-year
old blue haired lady who, barely seeing over the dashboard, drove
slower than the age of her youngest great grandchild. This made
me feel fantastic.
“You have a lot of work to do,” Desmond said, before
drifting off for another nap. Not the start I expected to my driving
career.
However, within a few weeks, I was swinging left turns, right turns
and 3-point turns like I was Mario Andretti. I was ready for my
road test--or so I thought.
In the days leading up to my test, I became excited about getting
my license. Growing up, I was always jealous of the families that
would get in their car for road trips, usually traveling to the
mythical town of “Down South.” In my family, our “road
trip” was hopping on the D train for the annual sojourn to
Coney Island. I dreamt that my parents would steal a car and we
could drive anywhere we wanted. Sometimes I even closed my eyes
and imagined that my Dad had hijacked the D train and announced
that the next stop would be “Walt Disney World” so I
could ride on the Magic Tea Cups.
However, we always ended up in Coney, where we rode the Cyclone,
a rickety roller coaster held together by rusty screws recycled
from ancient tricycles. I was afraid that at any moment the 900-year-old
jalopy would hurtle me into space (possibly landing onto a car headed
“Down South”).
I thought about this as Desmond and I drove up to Strang Avenue
in the Bronx, which was so far away from my Harlem home that I thought
the road test location was in Cucamonga. He tried to pump me up.
“Are you ready?” Desmond said, awakening from his fifth
nap of this trip. This was a small problem, since he was driving.
“Do you think I’m ready?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. You have to take the
test.” What he really meant was ‘I get paid whether
you pass or fail so I don’t care.’
“I guess we’ll find out soon.”
When we arrived, the road test victims were in their cars, with
their instructors lined up outside waiting for their charges to
return victorious. Strangely enough, they were all wearing blazers
that did not match their pants. While they were excellent at navigating
a U-turn in the green pea soup-thickness of New York City traffic,
finding just the right blazer to match with their green pea-colored
slacks presented a significant problem.
An hour after arriving at the site, I was at the front of the line.
My belly started to turnover like it was filled with apples as my
brain filled with questions: Am I ready for this? Should I have
taken a fifth lesson last week? Will Desmond ever use a breath mint?
The Road Test Instructor got in the car. While I assumed he was
a human, I become convinced that the instructor was a gorilla. He
appeared to be a huge, imposing simian who did not talk--it was
more like grunting and grumbling. It reminded of a language I once
heard on the National Geographic Channel.
“Pull out when you feel safe,” he grumbled. I think
I can understand simian. Cool.
The Instructor wore a vinyl jacket that might have been from fashion
designer Issac Mizrahi’s new collection for Target With his
all blue uniform and yellow lettering, the Instructor looked like
he was dressed up as a mall security guard for Halloween. Or maybe
“mall security guard” was his night job since road test
instructors were slightly above dishwashers on the salary scale.
“You did not check your blind spot when you pulled out. That’s
a problem.” Last time I checked, no one signals during NASCAR
races and they make out okay (despite the occasional crash, which
the drivers always seem to walk away from, except for when they
don’t). Mr. Kong began punching notes into his fake DMV-issued
Palm Pilot and I kept driving.
“Make a left turn here,” he growled, and I successfully
nailed that request. I could almost breathe again. Then I saw a
stop sign at the end of the short street. The words of Desmond,
my driving Yoda, filled my head.
“…Make sure you stop for four seconds…then
proceed slowly…SNORE…”
The instructor snapped me back into focus. “Make a right
turn here.”
I carefully approached the stop sign. One. Two. Three. Four. Score
one for the good guys. Then I started my right turn.
Mighty Joe Young roared. “You have to edge forward after
a stop sign. You’re turning like you know it’s clear.
Do you know it’s clear?”
“No,” I replied. At least I got that correct.
“Then what are you doing?” He obviously thinks
I am an idiot. He started slamming his pen into his fake Pilot
again. I figured I was close to the high score, which in pinball
is very good. Here, not so much.
“Pffft,” sighed the Instructor, expelling all the air
in his body. “Parallel park, please.”
Subconsciously, I knew that passing this test was no longer an
option and my brain responded to his latest request as if I had
never driven before. Sweat poured off my bald head and a little
urine escaped from my urethra, not wanting to be attached to a loser.
“Bumph”--Crap! I really did it now.
“You cannot drive on the curb! That’s a dangerous action!”
Okay, now he’s just being a, well, gorilla. Sure, my rear
wheel slightly kissed the curb. But how was driving on the curb
a “dangerous action?” There were no people on the street
to run over and, while I did not ask for a direct confirmation,
I don’t think the curb was all that offended.
“Put the car in park. Your test is over.”
I assumed a road test was supposed to last longer than a Friskies
commercial. I waited for the gorilla to hand me a receipt that was
printing from his Magna-Doodle pilot, as if I needed written confirmation
of my incompetence. I decided to appeal to the gorilla’s American
spirit.
“You know, if you fail me, the terrorists will win.”
He just stared at me through his dollar store Ray-Bans and handed
me a slip, while saying something that sounded like “GRRR
AR AR AR!” - loosely translated as “You need to practice.”
I guess my road test instructor had more important things on his
mind than national security. I failed.
When I got back to the so-called “Broadway” Driving
School, the place was crowded with fellow students. The owner walked
right up to me.
“So what’s the good word?”
“The word is I suck.”
“That’s weird. All of our students have failed their
road tests this week.”
Was I supposed to take comfort in the fact that I was part
of a collective of losers? Maybe the questionable fashion choices
and lack of a sufficient dental plan for your instructors negatively
influenced your teaching ability.
Not wanting to give in to my misery, I reschedule another road
test for six weeks later. This will give me time to take a few more
lessons, brush up on my simian and appropriately apologize to the
curb for any inconvenience I may have caused. Sure, I could go back
to relying on the subway, but the last time I checked, the D train
still does not go to Disney World.
|
