LJ Idol Week 17: Nevermind

[flipflop_diva]

The yellow MG had been in our family as long as I could remember. So long it was almost like a family member. An old, two-door convertible of sorts that had definitely seen better days.

My dad loved that car. (He still does actually. That’s why it’s still sitting in his garage to this day.) Every weekend when I was growing up, he was out there in the garage tinkering with it. Replacing this or that. Washing and waxing. Vacuuming up any speck of dirt or dust that dared to get in or on it.

Most of the time when he took it out, it was just him. Car top down, his sunglasses on, pipe in his mouth, cruising along up and down the streets of our city.

But on Fourth of July every year, my sister and I and a few of our friends were allowed to decorate it. Cover it in red, white and blue streamers and signs that spelled out “Happy Fourth of July!” And then we got to ride in it, squished in the back seat that really wasn’t a seat but more just a space between the driver’s seat and the trunk.

It was the highlight of every summer, and it was a painful realization the day we got too tall to actually fit in the back seat that those days were over.

“When you get old enough to drive,” my dad told me then, “you can drive it if you can past the test.”

“What’s the test?” I asked eagerly.

“You’ll see,” he said vaguely.

It was years later when I finally got the answer to that question. The MG had fallen into some hard times since then. It was broken more than it was not. It sat in the garage, covered protectively with a tarp, more than it saw sunlight. But my dad still went outside and fiddled with it, and he still attempted to drive it whenever he could fix it enough to do so.

We were up at our cabin in the mountains one weekend after I had just gotten my learner’s permit. By our house was a road that veered sharply up, so much so that when you drove it, you always feared in the back of your mind that you were going to start rolling backward and that was going to be it.

My dad pointed to that road. “You want to drive the MG,” he said, “Then you need to prove to me you can drive up that road and stop near the top without rolling back more than six inches.”

“In Mom’s car?” I asked eagerly.

He almost glared at me. “The truck,” he said.

I knew that was coming. My mom’s car was an automatic. My dad’s truck and the MG a manual.

“Are you sure the MG is still going to work by then?” I asked.

My dad mock glared again. I laughed.

But I wanted to drive that car, if only for the memories. I had dreams of cruising around in it like my dad always did, with my friends next to me in the passenger seat.

But first I had to learn to drive. And that was the hard part.

I had a recollection, probably from when I was no older than five, of sitting in the back seat of my dad’s truck while he tried to teach my mom how to drive stick shift. I remember stopping on a deserted road. I remember lots of yelling on my dad’s side, lots of tears on my mom’s. I remember my dad screaming to give him the keys. And I remember my mom saying she didn’t need to learn stick shift anyway!

I asked my mom to teach me how to drive in her car. It was a good choice. My mom was kind and patient and understanding. Sure, I freaked her out a few times when I hit the gas too hard or took a little too long to stop, but she was mostly calm and she let me practice over and over until I got it right.

And a few months after that, I came home with my driver’s license clutched in my hand, grinning ear to ear.

The next day I met my dad in the driveway for lesson number one. I was determined and ready and excited.

We got in to the truck, me on the driver’s side, him on the passenger’s. We went over the manual transmission, how the gears worked, where you placed the stick shift for first, second, third and so on. Then he explained how the brake worked in conjunction with the clutch, what you have to step on when to slow down and go faster and stop.

It was a lot to take in, but we went over in a few times until I thought I was ready.

We traded places then, so my dad could drive us to the elementary school a half mile away with the huge parking lot. And then we traded back.

It did not go so well.

I knew what I was supposed to do, but my feet didn’t want to cooperate, and my timing was off. The truck spluttered along, jumping and hitching and not really going anywhere.

My dad was patient.

For the first five attempts. And then …

“You have to lift off the clutch slowly!! I told you that!!”

“I’m trying. I just …”

“Do it again! … NO! Not like that!! I TOLD you!!!”

It went on from there.

I kept trying. He kept yelling. I got more upset. My dad got more upset.

The tears finally came.

“You’re just like your mother!” my dad yelled in frustration.

“I can’t think when you’re yelling at me!” I yelled back, just as frustrated.

We tried it again. My dad made it two whole minutes without getting mad and yelling.

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I said after a while. I had already gone through one whole pack of tissues and my dad’s handkerchief.

“Let’s just drive home.”

He let me drive. Five blocks, a half mile. It seemed to take an eternity. I stalled over and over. Each time I did, he gritted his teeth a little more.

We finally got to the house. I made to turn into the driveway — the driveway with barely an incline but yet somehow, in that moment, it could have been a steep hill.

I stalled on the incline.

“Kristine!” my dad yelled.

“I’m trying!”

I pushed in the clutch and the brake, put the car in gear, moved my foot to the gas pedal, pressed on it a little too hard. The truck leaped, somehow left skid marks up the driveway. I got it mostly into place, shut it off, jumped out of the truck without saying another word to my dad and raced to the house, desperate to get away.

My mom met me at the door. “How did it go?” she asked kindly.

“Never mind,” I said. “I don’t want the MG anyway!”

(Four years later, the same scenario repeated itself with my sister. My dad has never since attempted to teach anyone to drive. It’s much, much better that way.)


Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! This was written for therealljidol Week 17. We were all given a mystery topic and 'Nevermind' was mine. To read some more awesome stories from other people, check out the submissions here. Voting will be up Sunday night!

Comments

[halfshellvenus.livejournal.com]

Hoo, boy, did this ever bring back memories!

the back seat that really wasn’t a seat but more just a space between the driver’s seat and the trunk.
My Dad also had an MG, so I remember the awkwardness of the non-backseat very well! It was gone by the time I turned 7 or 8, though.

The driving lessons.. what didn't seem to ever dawn on your father was that he was not the right person to teach anyone to drive. Good grief! Stick shift is tricky enough without dealing with impatience and yelling.

My dad imagined he would teach us to drive. With a stick shift, since that was the only kind of car he and my mother had back then. He explained the theory of the clutch long before things like the practicalities of steering, braking, and changing gears. Which was how my dad explained everything-- random, unfocused detail. Everything we did was wrong, and although there was no yelling, he was obviously convinced we would kill both him and ourselves imminently.

My mother took up the task of teaching us to drive. I didn't get to proficiency on the stick shift under her tutelage (the training car was an expensive sports car, and with the stress and knowing we'd never be able to drive it, what was the point?) Later, she got an automatic and taught me on that in no time.

My dad was somehow convinced that he taught all his kids to drive, when it had been his wives who'd done the work instead. ;)