During the 1950s, a driver’s license ranked way up there, along with circumcisions or Bar mitzvahs, signaling a young man had come of age. My father dreaded the day I’d be eligible for my learner’s permit. If it were up to him, he would have preferred celebrating my manhood with a bizarre tattoo or tying me down to an anthill. Nevertheless, it was time for me to get behind the wheel and there was nothing he could do about it.
After spending the day in the Department of Motor Vehicles, I finally broke free waving my learner’s permit high above my head. I asked my mom if I could celebrate by driving home. She declined. My lessons wouldn’t begin until early the following Sunday morning when my dad took me to a vacant K-mart parking lot where he set up an imaginary school of evasive driving. At that time of day, there weren’t many cars in the parking lot – just enough to act as natural obstacles, providing the opportunity to learn about swerving and slamming on the brakes.
The most significant challenge wasn’t learning the rules of the road, but rather my limited choice of training vehicles. “There’s no way you’re driving your mother’s new station wagon. And that goes double for my Cadillac,” said my dad. “And don’t even think about driving your brother’s Camaro.” That left me with the 1953 MG roadster he brought back from England after the war. The one with the manual transmission and right-hand drive.
Even though I’d never driven before, I knew that the driver is supposed to sit on the left side of the vehicle, shifting with their right hand. “In some countries like England, people drive on the left side of the highway,” said my dad. “That’s why they moved the steering wheel to the right side of the car.” That made no sense to me, so I asked him if they also wore their shoes on opposite feet? I was rewarded with a smack on the back of the head. “Do you want to learn how to drive or not? This is your car. Take it or leave it.”
Contrary to intuition, I had to mentally commit to driving from the right side, shifting with my left hand, while using my right foot to press on the gas and brake pedals and my left foot to push i the clutch. And we hadn’t even started moving yet.
“OK, let’s go ahead and start the car.” I turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. I cranked up the radio, hung my right arm out the window and lit up a cigarette. As we sat there in neutral, I revved up the engine to 4000 RPMs. “What are you doing?” yelled my dad. “I’m getting ready to burn rubber.” My brother taught me how to do that.
I spent the better part of the morning lurching and leaping, swerving and dodging shopping carts, running over curbs, contributing to my dad’s whiplash. The next challenge was learning how to turn. “Turning is easy,” said my dad. You just have to remember one thing: lookoveryourshoulderthenglanceinbothrearviewmirrorsput onyourturnindicatorputintheclutchandrevtheengineslightlywhiledownshiftingintosecond gearwhilelookingoveryourshoulderandreleasingtheclutchstartturningthesteeringwheeltotherightwhilepressing onthegaspedalandallowingthesteeringwheeltostraighten.”
Whenever I got flustered and forgot what to do, I shut off the engine. “That’s a pretty effective way to head off disaster,” said my dad. “But I doubt you’ll be able to use it once you get on the Hollywood Freeway.” He had a point. Eventually, I’d have to learn how to drive outside of the K-mart parking lot.
After a month of Sundays ricocheting around the K-mart, my dad announced that I was ready to take my driving test – provided I wouldn’t need to back up or parallel park. I’m not sure if he felt I was a competent driver or was just tired of living on the edge. Regardless, I made an appointment for my driver’s test the next day.
The following morning, my mom dropped me off at the Department of Motor Vehicles in the MG. I sat idling in line for my driver’s test, waiting for my examiner. I felt like a Navy pilot queued up for his first carrier launch. Eventually, a middle-aged man in a short-sleeved white shirt and tie approached the curb. He took one look at my right-hand drive MG, wrote something on his clipboard, then wedged himself into the left seat.
“Good morning Mr. Smith. My name is Winston Wadsworth and I’ll be your driving examiner today. During the test, I’m going to ask you to perform a number of maneuvers that demonstrate your competency to operate a motor vehicle in the state of California. If you make more than 30 driving mistakes or execute any critical driving errors, you will automatically fail the test. These include driving more than 45 mph, sideswiping an ambulance, or driving on the sidewalk. Do you have any questions?” Gulp.
After putting on his crash helmet and slipping in his mouthpiece he said, “Alright Mr. Smith, I want you to pull forward and make a right turn out of the driveway. Try not to hit the nun in the crosswalk.”
Ten minutes later, he said, “Pull up next to that Plymouth and parallel park in front of that fire hydrant.” I thought it was a trick. It was. When my right rear tire ran over the curb and clipped a police car, he failed me on the spot. “You can stop now. I’ll drive back to the office.”
I was stunned. I was the first one in the family to fail their driver’s test. To make matters worse, I knew I’d be spending six more weeks in the K-mart parking lot with my dad. The good news was that the state of California allowed you to fail the test three times before they banned you from driving for life.
I ended up failing the driver’s exam again, but by the third time Mr. Wadsworth had retired and I was assigned an examiner who wasn’t much older than me. He thought the MG was cool and couldn’t wait to pass me so he could drive it around the block a few times.
When I graduated from high school, my dad surprised me with a real car – a 1965 bright orange Mustang convertible. “We can’t have you pulling up to Harvard in a beat up old MG,” he said. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I had changed my mind about going to college. After all, anyone who needs three attempts to pass their driver’s test can’t be Ivy League material.
