EPISODE 8 EPISODE 8We universally accept that teenagers don’t know much about life, so why do we allow them to propel two-ton combustion engines over concrete at high speeds? After many months of pumping the phantom brake and digging my fingernails into the armrests, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when Hayden got his driver’s license.
After those long months of teaching Hayden to drive, I finally understood my own parents’ plight.
It was the day of my sixteenth birthday, and I was twirling the barrel of my curling iron through my bangs. I heard my mother’s voice calling from outside our brick ranch, “Sweet Pea! Come here, would ya?”
I groaned, rolled my eyes, and ignored.
“Honeybunch? C’mon, it’ll only take a sec!” Maz continued, eventually appearing at my bedroom door. I sassed back at her, annoyed by what I saw as her rude interference with the crucial task of heightening my bangs.
Eventually, I succumbed to her pleas, but not without attitude. I appeared outside, slump-shouldered and eyes rolling, where the cause of the hubbub was revealed. On our lawn sat a pale blue 1974 Volkswagen Beetle tied up with an enormous yellow bow.
I offered no apology for my embarrassing behavior. Instead, I screamed and ran to claim the gift, which I assumed I wholeheartedly deserved.
That day, my dad was going to help me deliver pizzas for a school fundraiser, and he thought it was the perfect opportunity for me to learn to use the Beetle’s stick shift.
My hair properly coiffed, I jumped excitedly into the driver’s seat and awaited Dad’s instructions.
A gruff former college football player, Dad was not delicate. He operated on pure instinct, street smarts, and gut feelings. I, on the other hand, uncertain of any innate abilities, relied on conscious analysis. Dad didn’t use maps, instructions, or cookbooks. I did. He used facial expression and volume to communicate more than words, while I spoke in great detail to explain my thoughts.
So, when it came time for me to learn how to drive a stick, we were not exactly compatible.
After several stalls, I eventually got the Beetle onto the road. I made every first-timer mistake—revving the engine, sputtering and stalling, rolling back after stopping on an incline, riding the clutch, and lurching. Each time, Dad bellowed, “Easy, easy! No, not now! There, now! Shift! The clutch, the clutch! Feel it in your rear!”
I couldn’t process the words he was blasting in my ear, and I soon began to cry.
“Can’t you feel it in your rear? That’s how you know when to shift!” he shouted in frustration. I had no idea what he was talking about, and continued to grind, lurch, and stall.
I was able to hide my tears during the first few pizza deliveries, but when the Beetle stalled in the middle of Route 286, downhill from a barreling coal truck, my father had to yell even more to get the car started and us to safety.
I was soon a blubbering, red-eyed, snotty mess. It didn’t help my delivery patter at the next stop.
“Hello—sniff—ma’am, I—I—I believe—snort—you ordered two—hiccup—pepperoni pizzas?” I managed to stammer out, rubbing my nose on my sleeve between my halting words.
“Oh, Sweetie, sure!” said the lady who answered the door. “Would you like to come inside and sit a while?”
I somehow managed to finish the deliveries without anyone calling child protective services but was devastated at my failure to understand my father’s instructions. Later, I took the Beetle out alone on the road in front of our house. Even though I still didn’t feel anything in my rear, I was surprised at how quickly I taught myself to shift successfully through the gear pattern.
Decades later, I realized being a passenger in a car being driven by your own teenager can be a real pain in the butt. Maybe that’s what Dad was talking about.