Driving Miss Crazy

“When I grow up, I want to be a bus driver.”

What had once been an adorable placemat, made by my kindergarten self, had now adopted a more mocking tone. I sat at my kitchen table, and tried not to cry. I was 16 years old, and completely license-less.

I knew how to drive. In fact, I had been driving flawlessly all summer, excluding that one unfortunate incident with a squirrel that lived on my street. But he was only in a coma, and made a full recovery. I’m sure of it.

I worked the blinkers like a pro, knew all the different speed settings of the windshield wipers, could make a mean three-point turn, and had even conquered the dreaded parallel-park maneuver. But apparently, the State of New York Department of Motor Vehicles just wasn’t impressed.

Permit in hand and Driver’s Ed certificate by my side, I made my first driver’s test appointment in White Plains.

“White Plains?! They don’t pass anyone.” I ignored the wise words of my fellow driving-impaired friends, and psyched myself up for the big day.

Sure, maybe they haven’t passed anyone...yet, I thought. Just wait until they saw my driving skills. I sat in the car, waiting for the woman from the DMV to climb in.

“It’s freezing in here. Turn off the AC.”

“Oh, okay, I’m sorry.” I fumbled with the temperature controls on the console, randomly smacking buttons until I hit something that seemed to stop the icy air. I immediately began to sweat.

“Make a right up there.”

I pulled away from the curb, “Rocky” theme song playing in my head. I put on my blinker, stopped at the stop sign, and then made the most beautiful right-hand turn of my driving career.

“Pull over. You failed.”

What?! How did that happen? She hadn’t even given me the chance to screw up. I was devastated, and when my mom got back in the car, I burst into tears.

“Don’t worry, Alyssa, everyone fails their first time.”

Yes, yes they do. It didn’t mean I was a bad driver. There was nothing to be embarrassed about. Of course I was disappointed, but it didn’t matter. I would have my license in no time.

My next test was scheduled for me through my Driver’s Ed program. It was early January, and there were huge piles of mud-stained snow lining the roads. Louis, my instructor, drove with me all the way down to the Bronx in silence. I had never heard him speak, ever, so I took his lack of words as a good sign.

“Pull up here and make a right.”

That sounded familiar.

I pulled up to a red stoplight, with my blinker on, looked to see if anyone was coming, and flawlessly turned right. I tried to peer out of the corner of my eye to see DMV guy’s face. I knew he’d be impressed.

“Okay, you can stop here.”

No. NO! The test wasn’t over yet. Or maybe my turn was so perfect he didn’t need to see any more...?

“But we’re not finished yet,” I said, hoping that maybe he had forgotten how the test was supposed to be given.

“Oh, you’re finished, missy. No right on red in the Bronx.”

Typical. Bronx: 1, Alyssa: 0.

Failing once was fine, I could totally handle it. Failing twice was unacceptable. Thoughts of being taxied around by my parents for the rest of my life haunted my dreams. My dad suggested that I invest in a Schwinn, and my mom hung that “hilarious” placemat up in the kitchen. It’s nice to have supportive parents during those moments you feel like you’re life is over.

By the time round three came around, I had just about given up hope. I left school early to go all the way up to Carmel, N.Y— The Holy Grail of New York State DMVs.

“ANYONE can pass in Carmel,” my brother told me. Great. Now I was doomed to fail.

I watched as a tiny disheleved woman with crazy curly hair struggled to climb into my mom’s SUV. (I had convinced her to let me borrow it. That other car was clearly bad luck).

She seemed a little distracted, but I decided to ignore it. We made it around the block, and Crazy Hair told me to try my hand at parallel parking. I decided it wasn’t my finest work—seeing as my car was perpendicular to the curb. She didn’t seem to agree.

She leaned over to congratulate me, and I caught the faintest hint of cheap Pinot Grigio on her breath. My assessment of her sobriety was quickly confirmed as she took a dive out the passenger side of the car, landing face down in a snow bank.

My mom, standing on the curb, looked horrified. I gave her the thumbs up.

Back at home, I found myself smiling up at my 5-year-old self-portrait on the fridge. One step closer to the dream.