Driving Lesson

Driving Lesson
a short story by Diana Weeks

"I can learn how to drive!” I thoughtfully celebrated when I woke up on my fourteenth birthday. I had requested a driving lesson as a gift from Daddy. It had been my secret wish when I blew out the candles on my party cake last year.

We lived close to bus lines and hadn’t had a car until after the war, when Uncle Buddy sold Daddy his 1940 Chevy. Bud decided to re-up in the Navy when his wife Ruby left him for a 4F-er who drove a Cadillac.

I could understand Aunt Ruby. I loved cars. My favorite game was identifying makes, model, and year, driving on Berry, the busy street a block away. I got many right, even from that distance.

As soon as Daddy put down his empty coffee cup beside his yoke-stained breakfast plate, I told him I was ready for my driving lesson. He laughed, like he’d hoped I’d forgotten.

I was lucky it was Sunday. Dad was off work from the print shop, and mad at our preacher for starting a building fund and expecting Daddy to sign up for monthly payments. Daddy was on strike against money-hungry Baptists.

Before Daddy would even let me get in the garaged sedan, he raised the hood and showed me the battery, radiator, surrounding hoses, and spark plugs. I bounced on my toes screaming inside “Let’s go!” But no, he showed me how to check the air in the tires with a fountain pen air gauge. Inside I was jumping.

Daddy smiled. “Well, get in!” I bolted for the driver door.
“No,” he strained not to yell. “Let me back us out of the driveway, and drive us where there’s not much traffic.”

“There’s no traffic here on our street,” I said smiling. He backed the vehicle and parked by the curb. Then he slowly exchanged places with me. His face flashed “I’m going to the dentist” fear. Thank goodness I had reached my full height, five foot three. My feet reached the pedals.

Daddy explained the horizontal right pedal was the gas, always to be respected. The clutch is tricky, he explained. It is for changing gears without killing the motor. Reverse is in the far corner of the invisible “H” pattern for the gears. There’s a special quarter-size silver button on the left side of the floor to tap to turn up and down the headlights high beams. By the brake pedal and the emergency brake handle.

I knew how to drive in my mind. Why was he boring me with all this? I did fine with turning on the key and pressing the starter which purred. I slowly pressed in the clutch and gently let it out while pressing on the gas pedal and shifting to first. The Chevy rolled backward. It was a perfect reverse execution. Dad started breathing again.

I turned right on Berry Street and shifted into second, and then to third. Wow, this is so easy. This is more fun than boys! Out of nowhere, a red truck streaked in front of me. “EEEK!” I hit the break so hard, the car jumped and stopped.

I got it started again, just as the light changed to green. But my smooth maneuvers, letting the clutch out and pressing the accelerator, didn’t mesh. The car bucked like a horse. I took my foot off the brake, and the car rolled back and hit a blue 1950 Buick. The whack sounded like a bonk. Oh no, the lady driver wore a purple hat.

Daddy was out of the car, seeing if everyone was all right. Cars stopped around us. I got out to look at the car I hit, and our back bumper, and it all looked fine. The thick chrome bumpers saved both vehicles from damage. I apologized and turned back to the driver’s seat, but it was occupied by Daddy.

“We’ll try again next year,” Daddy told me.

“Next year? That’s forever! I’ll be dead by next year. Or at least you will be,” I thought. But I didn’t say a word. Walking back in the house, I was mentally making a list of every neighbor, relative, and friend who might trade a driving lesson for a car wash.

THE END

© 2009, Diana Weeks
ALL RIGHT RESERVED