Driving lessons - Short Story

Literary Review, Fall, 2002 by Greg Downs

"On the highway?" I said.

"It's not exactly I-65," he said.

We stopped at a Quik-E-Mart where my father bought a small coffee in a Styrofoam cup, which he sipped from while I drove. We passed through Lihue and Wailua without any problems, but in Kapaa I needed to take a left across traffic, through a busy intersection. I was drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.

"You could drive a tractor-trailer through that gap," my father said. "You've got to have some balls."

When the next break came, I pressed the accelerator and had let the clutch halfway up when my calf muscle cramped, drawing my foot off the pedal. The car shuddered into the lane of oncoming cars and died. Drivers were honking at me from both directions. When I tried to restart the car, I forgot to put the stick in neutral. We stalled again.

"Jesus Christmas," my father said. There were coffee stains on his shorts and his T-shirt. He grabbed my hand and with it forced the stick into neutral. I pushed him away. He grabbed my hand again. I pushed him away again.

"People are honking at you," he said.

"I'm not driving until you stop yelling," I said.

"Jesus." He threw the coffee cup onto the floor mat. I unbuckled my seat belt.

"Drive yourself." I dropped the key on the driver's seat.

My father was yelling, but I walked across the intersection and waited in a convenience store until I saw his Dodge head up the hill toward his house.

I started walking toward his house, then jogging, then running fast. I wasn't in a hurry to get there; I was just tired of moving slowly.

When I returned home, my mother would not let me drive. I was too young, she said. My father asked me about it on the phone.

"She won't let me do anything. She thinks I'm a baby."

"Well, she should. Let you, I mean. You're a good driver."

I stared at my door mirror. My father didn't say anything. After a while he asked me about basketball.

I finally got my chance to drive a few weeks later, when Mr. Michaelson, while taking Edwin and me to the movies, asked about my trip to Hawaii. I told him about the driving, then Edwin and I went back to talking about the freshman-sophomore team, which would start practice in a few weeks.

"We're a little early," Mr. Michaelson said when we pulled into the theater parking lot. "Why not show me what you can do?"

"In the parking lot?" I said.

"Unless you'd rather wait for the Indy 500." He handed me the keys. In the back seat Edwin was locking and unlocking his door.

"It's illegal," Edwin said. "He's too young to drive."

"I'll give you your turn," Mr. Michaelson said. "After Paul."

"I don't want a turn." Edwin jumped out of the car and ran across the parking lot toward the movie theater. He had change in his pocket, quarters for the video games, and they spilled onto the asphalt as he ran.

"Sometimes I think I can understand a Chinaman better than I understand my own son," Mr. Michaelson said. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."

"Have you let him drive?"

Mr. Michaelson shook his head. I handed the keys back to him. He took them.