Okay, okay, breath, wow - you can really do this!  I see my driving instructor for the very first time as he is turning the corner in this little red 2 door Mercury Tracer with the BIG yellow bumper sticker on that screams inexperience: STUDENT DRIVER. . . oy.   Between working hella hours and trying to have a life in between all of that, I decided that it is high time that I join the multi-faceted yet dangerously alluring world of drivers - oh by the way did I mention I am 27?!

Yes, that’s right, I am the ripe old age of 27 and I have never had a driver’s license.  As I can hear the echo of reader’s mouths drop onto their keyboards and mouth “What the fuck?!” Let me explain.  I’m a New Yorker, not that that is any excuse, but it provides a realistic reason.  I was born and raised in New York City, the Bronx to be exact. I was nurtured by the rumble of the IRT line number 4, which took me to the far reaches of the ocean’s view to the lush trees and floral majesty of Botanical Gardens and Zoos.  With the drop of a token, the pre-cursor to the swipe aka Metrocard, I could venture between Puerto Rico, The Dominican Republic, Korea, Italy, Russia and Harlem USA.  If the MTA gave out passports, mine would be filled to the brim with the stamps of adventures that a young curious mind could bring forth.  Growing up here, the dream of being on the open road, just didn’t strike me as the thing to do - that’s what airplanes are for.  At different parts of my life, my parents owned a car and I do admit I enjoyed being a passenger, watching life speed by at 55-65 miles per hour; Going on family vacations in the “BATmobile” (the name of the car because the first letters on the license plate were BAT) and sadly peering out of my parent’s window on Christmas Day to see our beloved BATmobile be towed away by the city.  Cars were luxury items and after the BAT went bye-bye, my driving dreams went with it. 

I went off to college in West Bumblefuck Ohio, in the middle of corn and more corn and you’d think that I’d be clambering to drive.  With Cleveland approx 45 minutes away, it should have been a priority to learn to drive. . . umm  no.  You are talking to the mass transit GURU baby!

I’m so good at navigating mass transit that I was able to find public buses/trains (not Greyhound either) to get me from one end of the state to the other all with 4.00 - yes four measly dollars, so what the hell do I need a car for?

So Mr. Luther, my instructor, parks the training-mobile and hops out of the car and gives me one of those old-fashion 1970’s old pimp/player ” If I wasn’t teaching you how to drive, I’d probably try to fuck you in the backseat” looks.  I know I’m in for it now. 

Being pleasant isn’t one of his strong points:  “Okay, get in and make sure not to fuck up my car when you pull out into traffic.” 

Nor is discretion: ” Are you a Yankee or a West Indian? I hope you’re a Yankee ’cause them West Indians get on my last gotdamn nerves with all that accent and yammering and shit.”
Did I mention that he was quite free with his discussion of sex: “So I KNOW you put it on a muthafucker when you fuckin’ them don’t'cha?  You can be honest with me.  You got a boyfriend?”  Ah yes. . . and this is all within my first hour lesson. 

You’d think that I’d run for the hills after that lesson and chalk that experience as a bad case of eenie meeney miney mo with the Yellow Pages, but I didn’t, I kept with it and started to match him word for word and our conversations, though they lived on the raunchy side, were funny and engaging.  I was able to see his mini-lessons about relationships, politics, sex, working life and life in general truly enriching to my life. . . well in a weird twisted kind of way.  After months of the two of us being crammed in this tiny ass car, definitely not built for my long legs, but perfect for his midget-like ass, he looked over at me, with no malice, sexual innuendo even with a bit of pride:

“Baby, you doing real good,  just fine. Your test is Monday morning, be ready.”

I’ll let you know how I do. . .

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