So I finally went and got my license. It’s really about time. There’s something strange, and well, kind of pathetic about a guy who doesn’t get his driver’s license until more than halfway through his senior year. But in my defense, there is quite a list of reasons as to why it took me so long to obtain driver’s status. First there were my parents who insisted that I raise me grades before I took the test. When they finally realized that my grades weren’t going to get any better, they allocated that I get my license. Unfortunately, by that time, knowing that I wouldn’t have a car to drive, I had become bored with the idea of driving. Add that to my natural tendencies of laziness, and phobia of calling the DMV, and you have one bona fide pedestrian. But there are other reasons why I cringed at the idea of getting my driver’s license. It all dates clear back to the summer between my freshman and sophomore year. Believe it or not there was a time when I awaited my sixteenth birthday for the sole purpose of getting my license. I had a countdown to January sixth in my room, which began at two hundred and forty-seven. I was in fact, determined to receive my license.
That summer, I took driver’s education. I endured the week-long classes. I endured the sheer boredom. I endured “Red Asphalt” I, II, and III. I took the written test (only missed one!), and got my learner’s permit. The next step to driving freedom was to take the behind the wheel training. We set up the next available appointment, and I became that much closer to driving. But, had I had even the slightest notion of what I was about to go through, I probably never would have began the course. By the time the date of my first lesson arrived, school had just begun, and the driving instructor was to pick me up from the faculty parking lot. That Wednesday after class, I rushed to the front of the school. I waited only a moment before a red car labeled with the name of the driving school. (The name of this particular driving school will not mentioned, due to the fact that they frequently advertise in this paper.) As the driver pulled up, I walked to the window and told him that I was to be his student. I got into the passenger seat and immediately began the introductions. My instructor, “Ronald” (the name has been changed), spoke with a heavy British accent. But what was even more obscure about him (and much more noticeable at that) was his appearance. “Ronald” (a rather large man), had a sort of an afro hairstyle; big jet-black curly hair that had obviously been dyed. Aside from that he wore thick, dark aviator glasses, so dark in fact, that you couldn’t see his eyes through them at all. “Ronald” was also sporting a white large-collared shirt, which was unbuttoned halfway, revealing several gold chains, and a rather massive amount of chest hair. At first I tried to put “Ronald’s” appearance beside him. But I couldn’t for the life of me get these images of Jon Travolta dancing in “Saturday Night Fever” out of my head.
The first of my three lessons was rather interesting. All along the way, Ronald kept asking me these trick questions, questions like: “What do you do at a stop sign?” Naturally I’d answer, “Stop?” and he would continue by asking, “Why?” I said, “because the sign tells us to.” He seemed to like that answer well enough. (Especially since he asked me the question every ten minutes.) I remember one time I asked him, “Which way should we turn next?” He responded with,
“Oh, are we both driving the car now? Are we taking turns? I think what you were trying to say is, ‘which way should I turn next?’” I think maybe Ronald had once aspired to be an English teacher, but decided on driving instead. My lesson continued in a similar fashion. Ronald had this special system of driving that he felt every driver should learn. It was really, really complicated. I had to learn the conversion for number of houses, number of cars, number of trees, and number of telephone poles. Needless to say, I became frustrated with all of Ronald’s trick questions and complex driving strategies. The next lesson I had dreaded. I begged my mom to call the school and cancel my lesson. She wouldn’t, she thought my experience would build character. I studied his driving system for an hour before hand. (That’s more time then I’ve ever spent on homework.) He showed up at my house…early. I think he was eager to torture me for yet another two hours. It was pouring rain outside, and as I got into the car, Ronald told be that we might have to cut the lesson short because the car’s battery was dying. I told him that was fine by me (inside rejoicing), and we started down my street. We hadn’t gone more than two blocks before Ronald had to resort to keeping the windshield wipers on the low setting. By the time we went three blocks, and were on the first major street, the wipers were dead altogether, along with the car’s headlights. At this point, five minutes into the lesson, on a major street, and pretty much driving blind, Ronald had me quickly make a U-turn in the middle of the street. (And I executed it quite well if I say so myself. I work well under pressure.) We then drove down the street totally without sight, and hoping that I was still in the right lane. We got to the stop sign and Ronald had me “roll” the stop sign, saying that if I made a complete stop car would die altogether. Seven minutes after my second lesson began, it ended. Ronald expressed his thanks to me, saying that I handled the situation well. Of course it would’ve meant a whole lot more, if he had gotten my name right. At the end of the lesson he said,
“See you later Mike.” The lesson was later rescheduled, and once again I was on the road with Ronald.
The second lesson wasn’t nearly as bad as the first. By this time I had gotten used to Ronald, as well as all the people pointing at laughing at the student driver. (People can be so cruel.) Towards the end of my lesson, Ronald became rather quiet. I assumed it was because I was becoming a better driver and he didn’t feel the need to criticize me. But then, out of the blue, Ronald turned to me and asked me the question that to this day I will never understand.
“Do you know any Chinese doctors?” At first I thought I had heard him incorrectly.
“What?” I asked. Ronald repeated himself as before.
“Do you know any Chinese doctors?” I thought for a minute or two, thinking that maybe this was another one of his trick questions. But finding absolutely no relation to driving I finally answered,
“No.”
I waited for an explanation.
“Oh.” he said, as he turned back to the road. By this time I was really confused, and tried to think of what he was trying say. I finally turned to him and asked,
“Why do you ask?” Ronald replied with, and I quote,
“Well, sometimes I ask people if they know any Chinese doctors and they say, ‘I don’t know’ and I say, ‘well you must know if you know any Chinese doctors!’”
I don’t know what he was trying to say, or what he was trying to explain. I finally came to the conclusion that he was attempting to be humorous, so I let out this sort of delayed courtesy laugh. After that, Ronald didn’t say much until the lesson was over. That was my last lesson with Ronald. After that experience I wasn’t too interested in taking my final lesson, and thus my driving progress halted. Two years later, I finally took my final lesson, but not from Ronald. I specifically requested someone else. When I did take my final lesson, my new driving instructor seemed to understand my qualms with my previous teacher. He looked at me knowingly and said,
“Yeah, I get a lot of Ronald’s students.” I don’t know what Ronald was trying to tell me when he asked me that question, or if he was even trying to tell me anything at all. None-the-less, two and a half years later I finally got my license. (I scored a 94) The other day while driving, I saw Ronald. He was in the passenger seat of the same infamous red car, instructing some poor soul. I pitied the poor lad. Maybe in two and a half years, he too will get his license.
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