Revelle

6.5.2016

Often random, unsolicited emails arrive in the robot's inbox.  Often they're personal pictures of people and their friends from around the world.  Sometimes they're text-based.  Like this one:

Driving has always been a passion of mine. My favorite ride at Disneyland had always been Autopia.  Bumper cars at carnivals were my go-to ride, and I loved going boating with my uncle just for the possibility of getting the chance to steer the wheel. Anytime I was able to take control of a wheel, I was happy. Being able to drive a car means freedom.  Freedom to go where you want to go whenever you want to go.  I could not  wait for freedom. When I turned fifteen and a half, I was able to take the test to get my driver’s permit.  I had studied the entire week before the test and wasn’t surprised when I passed. I just wanted to start driving (legally). That weekend, I was signed up to start driving school.

    Bright and early on a Saturday morning in December, I had my first driving lesson. I waited outside of my house for the driving instructor to pick me up. At 7:04 (four minutes late), he arrived, driving a Mini Cooper with red, white, and blue American flags covering every surface. He introduced himself as Mike , and I got in the driver’s seat. Despite the setback of the utterly patriotic exterior of the car that made me feel somewhat humiliated to be driving in, I was excited and nervous for my first lesson. Mike was an interesting person.  Being a driving instructor seemed like a second career for him. Mike smelled like he had just ate a tuna sandwich and  had smoked a bunch of cigars. The first hour felt pretty good. My left hand turns were impeccable, changing lanes was a breeze, and, although they were jerky in the beginning, my stops were the perfect distance from the white line. I felt like I could do anything.  “How about we start driving on the freeway?”

Except for that.

The freeway was something that had completely slipped my mind. I was perfectly content driving in the school parking lot of Westchester High for the rest of my life. The fear of missing an exit and being stuck on the freeway forever, like some sort of Twilight Zone episode, started to build up in my mind. After a few minutes of back and forth with my instructor, I reluctantly agreed, and we made our way to the 405.

We were on the freeway for about ten minutes and everything seemed to be going fine. The increase of speed from 25 to 65 miles per hour felt like nothing, and I was proud of myself for doing something I wasn’t too excited to do in the first place. I was actually starting to enjoy the speed and the challenge of navigating my way around Los Angeles. Mike seemed to be enjoying the rest of his lunch while I was going 65 miles and hour on a very busy freeway that goes by just a number.  My hands were starting to hurt from holding on so tightly to the steering wheel.  But, I was maintaining my composure and doing ok. An instant later, all of that changed. Suddenly, the car started to shake and was sliding towards the edge of the freeway.

As all of this was happening, I looked to my left and saw the culprit. A woman who looked to be about 90 years old was calmly pushing me off the road. She was wearing a black leather jacket, probably because she was in a motorcycle gang and decided that today she wanted to drive without any prior car-driving experience. I was terrified.

My instructor was calm, too. Was I the only person who was concerned about the crash? When we pulled over, Mike and the elderly Motorcycle Gang Lady argued for twenty minutes about insurance and not calling the police, as I waited in the car, shaken and a little concerned for the lack of concern. The elderly lady was using up my two hour driving lesson negotiating with Mike not to call police because she didn't want to loose her license. She spent a lot of time saying that the major body  damage could be fixed without too much expense and she was willing to pay for it all.

Mike, still cool as a cucumber, got back into the car, and asked me if I wanted to go to a lighthouse. Was this the standard protocol for car accidents? I said okay, and I had to drive us all the way to the Point Fermin Lighthouse in Palos Verdes. I was very shaken up and had to hold it together for the rest of the day.

I empathized  with the lady that hit us; she was really shaken up and very upset, too.   It was clear to me that being able to drive a car meant freedom to her, too. In that first driving lesson I learned that my freedom is dependent on the freedom of others. What I wanted to earn so badly at 15 years old is what the elderly women was holding in to at age 90, the freedom, independence, excitement and thrill of driving a car in Los Angeles.

Tonight - The Homestead


bye-ee!
whrr ... clik!