Baby, You Can Drive My Car

IAM 21 YEARS OLD and I cannot drive a car. I have managed to come up with great excuses for this flaw in my character for this flaw in my character for several years now: I'm from New York City and don't need to drive; I've always been too busy. But the fact of the matter is that I must show a learner's permit as a valid form of identification (to the great amusement of my drive-o-centric friends), and I still need my mother to drive me to the mall.

My lack of state-sanctioned driving ability was of little relevance to me in high school. No one in my class possessed their own car, much less an occasion to drive one. While suburban friends regaled me with tales of car culture, I told them equally exciting stories about the New York City public transportation system. I listened with curiosity to stories of begging for rides to school from juniors and seniors, getting pulled over for speeding, and, most importantly, love amidst the vinyl. Nothing romantic ever seemed to happen on the M79 Crosstown.

I actually tried to take driver's education while I still lived in New York. Unfortunately, it didn't fit into my schedule until the spring of my senior year. My enthusiasm for driving lessons was on a par with my enthusiasm for the rest of my classes. In other words, I didn't go. I skipped most of the classroom time and nearly all of the movies, except for the one about drunk driving that I was promised would be very exciting. I did attend my actual "road time" assignments, led by Keith, a dead ringer for radio deejay Howard Stern who insisted on listening to his idol while we drove. Despite my attempts to master the art of driving, I always seemed to miss key elements of driving technique. So Keith would do them for me. For example, when I "learned" to do a three-point turn, I did so by handing the wheel to Keith, who would execute the proper turns and shifts. Three or four times. Needless to say, Keith has become very good at turning, while I could still use some practice.

Forever being the designated non-driver has had an impact on my relationships with friends and loved ones. My permanent passenger status has led me to the infinitely important, yet seriously overlooked, role of Chief Navigator. My skill with maps has grown legendary. I am also often left with the thankless role of keeping the driver awake on long trips. While not driving can leave me feeling dependent and childlike, it also means that I can drink without guilt. Shotgun inevitable awaits me, much to the annoyance of those who, sober as a judge, must take me home.

After spending two and a half years in college being mocked by friends and defending my lifestyle to people who have been driving since they were thirteen and first got a crack at the tractor, I decided to take action. I would take driving lessons for real and get my license. I would drive myself across the country, chaperone friends, start a taxi service. I called up a driving school in New York and started taking lessons.

As I accumulated class hours, my confidence grew. I executed right and left turns with skill and merged with grace. I even began to develop some of the belligerent driving techniques I had long witnessed in friends, parents and cab drivers. Rudy, my friendly instructor, assured me that the test would be no problem.

According to the procedure of the driving school, I would be taken to the DMV test site on Staten Island, an hour away from my home in Manhattan. I was to take the test in the car I had been practicing in and Rudy would accompany me. The whole process seemed painless; I could take the test in the morning and be home with my shiny new license by lunch.

The morning of the test I met Rudy at 7:30 outside of my building. He then informed me that I would be driving to the test site. Despite my fear of having to drive for so long, I got in on the driver's side. pulled the seat up about 6 inches and took off.

The resulting drive was terrifying and endless. I was forced to drive over terrain and through obstacles that I had never tackled before. I drove through a toll booth and clumsily made change with the attendant, who was not amused by my awkwardness in maneuvering the car so our hands could meet, I drove through the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel and tried to forget that I absolutely detest tunnels. I then drove over the Verrezano Narrows Bridge. Immortalized in Saturday Night Fever, one of my favorite films, the Verrezano is the world's longest suspension bridge. And I drove over it, reaching Staten Island just as the sun was breaking through the clouds.

As I drove I began to relax, but as soon as we reached the test line I was suddenly more nervous than I'd been in a very log time. Rudy told me that the test would be a piece of cake, as long as I didn't get the rather large man with the walrus mustache standing across the street. Unfortunately, after several minutes of squirming on my part, Walrus himself approached the Honda. Rudy disappeared and Walrus settled into the passenger's seat.

Things got off to a bad start when he didn't respond to my cheerful morning greeting. He then proceeded to call me Liz. Without asking. I would have been fine with Elisabeth, if not Ms. Mayer, but Liz seemed invasive. I was already on edge.

As I pulled away from the curb my entire body froze up. My formerly smooth, fluid motions became stiff and jerky. I felt myself turning red. Walrus, meanwhile, was not amused.

I made it through the first part of the test with minor problems and gathered my strength for the woolly behemoth of the parallel park, a technique Rudy had neglected to teach me until the day before. Slowly I pulled up to the car in front, slowly I turned The wheel and began backing up and slowly, ever so slowly, I backed the car into the curb, coming to a halt with a gentle, yet firm thud. My test was over.

At that point I considered getting out of the car, if only to escape the condemnation of the inspector. Then I remembered that I needed the car to get home. We drove back to the line and I flopped into the passenger seat.

We drove home n silence, through three boroughs, over the bridge, through the tunnel, etc, etc. Rudy belatedly offered to teach me to park for free, but I turned him down. I was too exhausted to think about any more driving.

So here I am, back at school, with the same old learner's permit and a slightly diminished enthusiasm for driving. But the goal is still there; I've set the deadline for the end of school. Oddly enough, none of my friends want to lend me their cars for lessons.