My father taught me to drive. That was a mistake.
It is fair to say that my father had a driving style that reflected the man himself. His formative years in the 1920s were spent on the streets of South Philly, running with a bunch of other Italian kids. He learned to swim when his buddies threw him into the Delaware River. His introduction to driving came behind the wheel of a stolen bread truck.
He was not in love with humanity, which is strange since he was a guitar-playing entertainer whose work involved pleasing people. When he was on stage, he had a fake grin plastered on his face. The audience thought he was happy. He was not, unless his horse or number had come in that day.
He had the amazing and uncontrolled ability to transform from completely calm to a boiling rage within seconds. It just took an appropriate trigger, and there were many of those to be tripped upon.
Dad drove as if he were unhappy with everyone else on the road. Actually, there was no “as if” – he was angry at the drivers of all the vehicles that got into his way. In a crowded city like Philly, that happened a lot.
While teaching me to drive, he provided sage advice such as, “Green means go, and yellow means go a little faster.” He also advised that if someone wanted to pass me from behind on a two-lane road, I shouldn’t let them.
In an impatient manner, he provided me with the basics of parallel parking, but didn’t give me much time to practice. On my first day driving, he had me leave the comfort of a large parking lot and turn onto Roosevelt Boulevard, U.S. 1, a frenetic major thoroughfare, with six lanes in each direction. It was the automotive equivalent of throwing me into the Delaware, only he was along for the ride.
Now, Dad wasn’t really pleased to be using up his time in this manner. I don’t think he gave a flip about whether I learned to drive. Mom didn’t drive, or she would have done it. She must have told Dad that he had to teach me. I was coming up on high school graduation, and in the fall, I would become a Bucks County Community College commuter student. This was an unanticipated development. Had I known several months earlier that I would need to drive every day, I would have signed up for driver’s ed. Instead, I got Dad’s ed.
The big day finally came. Although I had not had a lot of actual driving time, I had studied the Pennsylvania driver’s manual cover-to-cover, and felt good about the written test. So, Dad (not I) drove us out to a state testing facility in his 1965 Chevy Biscayne, which was eight years old at that point. In those days, a state trooper administered the driving part of the test, which was preceded by a cursory safety inspection of the vehicle.
Pennsylvania required then – and still requires today – that, “A registered vehicle moved upon a highway shall bear a valid certificate of inspection…” Well, the Biscayne did bear a valid certificate of inspection, but it did not come as the result of a certified inspection in which deficiencies are identified and corrected. It costs a lot of money to properly maintain a vehicle. Dad had a better way. He simply bought an inspection sticker each year from a friend who ran an auto repair shop. I believe that the annual cost was five dollars. What a bargain!
The driving test state trooper was not in on the scam. He noticed that the Biscayne’s tires were so bald that internal fibers were poking out through the remaining thin layer of rubber. He flunked the car! I was prohibited from taking the test and would not be allowed to try again with the Biscayne until the tires were replaced.
Dad tried his standard approach, trying to buddy up to the trooper, explaining how difficult it was to make ends meet, and to ask for an exception. When that did not meet with success, he vaguely hinted that maybe the two of them could work out something. No go.
The ride home was not pleasant. Dad was royally pissed and fumed the whole way, focused on how much it might cost to replace four tires. I was nervous. A driver’s license applicant who failed three times was required to wait a lengthy period until being allowed to try again. I now had one strike.
Dad got the replacement tires. I don’t remember any of the details, but it couldn’t have been pretty. He likely purchased retreads, and he most assuredly argued with the proprietor about the cost and any additional fee, such as for valve stems.
For my second try, we headed to a different state testing facility. Maybe Dad didn’t want to run into the trooper with whom he had tried to make a deal. My written test went fine, and the Biscayne passed the once-over from a different trooper. But I screwed up the driving test. I was not prepared for the serpentine part of the test. No one (= Dad) had said anything about hand-over-hand turning of the steering wheel. So, when I got to the twisting back and forth portion, I could not stay within the lines, jammed my fingers into the steering wheel and accidentally blew my horn a couple of times.
Strike two. Now Dad was pissed at me – not a good feeling.
In the days following, I went to some of my friends who had already passed the test and asked for help. They provided valid guidance which had been neglected in my earlier training. The pressure was on when I went back for my third try. If I failed, my plans to drive to community college every day starting in just a few months would be ruined as I would be in the testing penalty box.
Somehow, everything went right, and I passed. What a relief! Dad expressed a limited amount of joy.
After getting my new license, we headed back to the Biscayne. I asked if I could drive us home. That changed the mood in a hurry. Dad scowled at me, made a loud dismissive harumph and pointed me to the passenger’s seat. Nevertheless, I was on cloud nine through the ride home, even as Dad uttered profanities at those who dared impede his progress. My father, surely one of the worst driving teachers ever.