My First Driving Experience Essay
When I was growing up, not driving had overtones of New York hipness. ”Because it takes me a while to focus on the task at hand, Ben and I have fallen into the habit of long lessons—we drive for two hours, sometimes three. I am careful to stop for the old rabbi, I pause and make eye contact with the mother herding her two little boys.
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From the rueful look on his once again kindly face, I know that I have failed. Did I run a red light, miss a stop sign, fail to notice one of the many bicyclists who sneak up into my blind spot whenever I go into reverse? This time it was points, Ben tells me: in our five-minute practice test, I racked up sixty. “That and lining up too far away when you go to park.” The clock on the dashboard reads seven-forty-seven. I did not realize that my mother was a secret drinker.
Pollitt, pull over.” He doesn’t even need to say the words. Five for parallel-parking more than fourteen inches from the curb, ten for rolling when I paused for the woman with the stroller (but at least I saw her! ), fifteen for hesitating in the intersection so that a driver in a car with New Jersey plates honked and gave me the finger? This is your weakness.” This truth hangs in the air like mystical advice from a sage in a martial-arts movie.