When summer came, I
took the Driver’s Ed course at Dad’s request, mainly because he was
concerned about insurance rates, and at least a “B” in the class would
mean more dollars in his wallet if I were going to be driving his car.
Though the classrooms at Gavit High were still not air-conditioned, and
the rooms were all stifling, the actual driving portion of the class was
enjoyable, not just because the 1962 Pontiac we drove was
air-conditioned, but because we were actually driving. Mr. Batcomb, our
instructor, was an irascible baseball coach with a flat top haircut, and
a nose that in profile resembled a huge peninsula jutting out from what
seemed some undiscovered country. A nervous, insecure, and very
impatient man, Mr. Batcomb was an almost comical choice to teach such a
class. Except for his ample nose, he reminded me of the young Bob
Newhart, who was a popular new comedian at the time, apologetic only in
the most sarcastic ways. As a baseball coach, Mr. Batcomb believed that
any boy not active enough in sports to be on some varsity team was
worthless and should simply be set adrift on an ice floe somewhere up
north, never to be heard from again. In dealing with me, even on my best
days, he always had a “Hrumph” in his attitude, an attitude that he
made no attempt to conceal. If his class had been a Monopoly game, my
report card would surely have said, “Do not pass go. Do not pass my
class. Do not collect $200.”
There
were three other sophomores in the car besides me. The student driving
at any time would always have Mr. Batcomb sitting next to him while the
other three students would be in the back seat observing, judging, and
sometimes snickering. In order to avoid possible law suits, I will use
only the first names of my Driver’s Ed cohorts, Greg, Sharon and Louise.
It should be remembered here that all our very lives were in the hands
of whoever was at the wheel, and that the only way at times to avoid
reaching critical mass was to close your eyes and plug your ears, unless
of course you were driving. The most valuable thing I learned in
Driver’s Ed was that if you have a CAUTION, STUDENT DRIVER sign on top
of your car, you own the road. Other vehicles just move out of the way,
pulling over onto road shoulders, lawns, sidewalks, anywhere, to escape.
Gail
and Darlene Desento became Driver’s Ed legends the second week, Gail
plowing through some trash cans in an alley, where her instructor had
evidently and mistakenly hoped to practice while avoiding any actual
cars or traffic. Her twin Darlene managed to top her sister the third
week by scraping the passenger side of the car on a pump station while
pulling in to get gas.
In
our car Greg, who looked like Ichabod Crane, always had to move the
seat back when he drove so that Sharon, Louise and I ended up chewing on
our knees, which weren’t that far from the car’s interior roof by then.
Greg received a “B” in driving skills at the end of the course because
of his tendency to tail gate. Mr. Batcomb told him it wasn’t necessary
to count the hairs on the head of the driver in front of us, but Greg
insisted evidently on being a real stickler for detail. Louise always
had to use a cushion in order to boost her height beyond that of a
toddler. The contrast between her and Greg was comical, because Greg was
so tall, that if he ever fell down, he’d be out of town, and Louise was
short enough to play a Munchkin in any possible remake of THE WIZARD OF
OZ.
The
less said about my driving, especially my parallel parking, the better,
but I must say something about Sharon, who was a nervous girl anyway,
even when not driving, who would two years down the road become one of
those screaming maniacs at the mere mention in homeroom of the Beatles.
Just the name “Paul” would make her pass out, so it’s easy to imagine
the kind of driver she turned out to be. The first omen about her skill
at the wheel of a car was when she was asked on her first day to prepare
for take-off. She buckled her seat belt, adjusted her seat, started the
engine, and then leaned over to look through the center of the
windshield, narrowing her eyes, which we in the back seat could see in
the rear view mirror. When asked by Mr. Batcomb what she was doing,
Sharon answered that she was getting a good view of the hood ornament.
When asked why, she replied, “Well, how else can I aim the car?” Greg
looked at me, his Adam’s apple moving so far up, that it disappeared,
and his face tightening to the point that his ears moved back and
flattened against the sides of is head, his eyes the size of saucers.
The
final week of the course, we were expected to drive on the expressway,
observing speed limits and other driving musts, like staying in our own
lane. As Sharon buckled up, we tightened our seat belts too, the way we
might be secured in our roller coaster seats at the county fair grounds.
All went well until we reached the expressway, where Sharon needed to
blend into the flow of other cars. The speed limit was sixty-five, which
Sharon was following, but when she hit a pot hole, the car swerved just
enough for her to lose control and then panic instantly. Letting go of
the steering wheel and covering her face with both hands, she began
whimpering, “Oh no, I’m gonna get an ‘F.’” No one was driving the car,
which was hurling itself down the expressway at sixty-five miles per
hour. Meanwhile, Mr. Batcomb lunged for the steering wheel to keep us in
our lane, as Louise screamed, “To hell with your damned ‘F.’ We’re
gonna be killed!” Needless to say, Sharon did, in fact, receive an “F”
in the skills part of the course, even though for the written portion
she received an “A.” Years later at our twentieth year class reunion, I
saw Sharon again, and her husband had taken away her driving privileges
by then.
We
all survived the class with
our lives, but there was one more test of our mettle, which the powers that be imposed upon us. The class was shown two films called, “The Last Prom” and “Signal 30,” which were intended to scare the living daylights out of anyone who had the slightest fragment of careless intention for driving left in his or her psyche. These films were in color and showed without apology or any attempt to reduce horror, the aftermaths of actual auto accidents. There were severed limbs, heads, people halfway through windshields, a trucker, who had hit another semi, his load of metal pipes having become deadly missiles and having gone right through his head and face like huge spears. These are the only details I can relate, because well before the end of the second movie, I had to leave the room in a cold sweat, despite the heat of the day. I’ve often wondered how effective those films were in terrifying those other teens into being more cautious drivers. In fact, having watched most of the films myself, I’m surprised that I was ever persuaded or motivated again even to get into a car, let alone to drive one.
our lives, but there was one more test of our mettle, which the powers that be imposed upon us. The class was shown two films called, “The Last Prom” and “Signal 30,” which were intended to scare the living daylights out of anyone who had the slightest fragment of careless intention for driving left in his or her psyche. These films were in color and showed without apology or any attempt to reduce horror, the aftermaths of actual auto accidents. There were severed limbs, heads, people halfway through windshields, a trucker, who had hit another semi, his load of metal pipes having become deadly missiles and having gone right through his head and face like huge spears. These are the only details I can relate, because well before the end of the second movie, I had to leave the room in a cold sweat, despite the heat of the day. I’ve often wondered how effective those films were in terrifying those other teens into being more cautious drivers. In fact, having watched most of the films myself, I’m surprised that I was ever persuaded or motivated again even to get into a car, let alone to drive one.
(Excerpt from John's second book, COME ON, FLUFFY, THIS AIN'T NO BALLET, a Novel on Coming of Age)
