Mirror to Mirror
A short story
The assignment was to write a coming of age story. This single piece
captures my family dynamic and expresses my desire to be a speech and
language pathologist.
Line up mirror to mirror. I have to take into account the sizes of the other cars. My compact, two-door, Nissan Sentra is significantly smaller than most of the vehicles on the road. Mothers feel they are entitled to a minivan, even if they only have one child. Men try to over compensate with their big trucks. Middle aged and middle class people feel the need to pay half their salary on gas. When trying to parallel park with any of these types of cars, mirror to mirror no longer applies. Luckily, my dad has me practicing behind a red Chevy Cobalt. Mirror to Mirror he instructs me. I put the car in reverse and start turning the steering wheel to the right. Back in, but slowly. Inch by inch I move closer until I reach the point where my dad shouts “Now, start cutting the wheel now!” That is my cue to turn the wheel in the complete opposite direction. This is where the car should start straightening out as I move closer to the curb. Easing in, I almost have it. My dad tells me to stop, but I don’t think I’m there yet. It is not until the right side of the car becomes elevated, and the tires are on the curb that I finally decide it’s time to stop.
I should listen to him, or at least so he says. I have no right to argue. Even if I did, I could never win. I am the screw-up. He is the Professional. He is a UPS veteran. He comes home with war stories about backing in the trucks, making sharp turns with tractor trailers, and maneuvering his way through any highway in New York State. He doesn’t even need a rearview mirror to drive. They don’t have rearview mirrors in the tractor trailers. He never gets lost. He doesn’t trust a blinker. His eyes are constantly scanning the road for other cars, pedestrians, or anything that could cause a potential accident. He is the driving hero.
My father and I live in two separate realities. In my world, learning to parallel park is a waste of time. Parallel parking is for the city, not for the suburbs. I do not need to parallel park at the super centers. Half the time the parking lots are bigger than the stores. If I can’t park in between the lines it is no big deal. There are plenty of spaces to go around. Every house has a driveway. Parallel parking is almost as pointless as spending my Saturday mornings at Driver’s Education. There I have a person even older than my father teach me and two other extremely inexperienced students how to drive. In my father’s world, he is the professional. Packed with all the knowledge from working for thirty years at UPS may have rendered my dad as the best driving instructor; however, it has certainly not rendered him patient.
What Can Brown Do For You? Apparently Brown can’t move the driver’s seat forward for you. Or put on decent music while giving a driving lesson. I find it very distracting trying to parallel park, while in the passenger seat, your fifty-year-old father is jamming out to I’m eighteen, by Alice Cooper. Sometimes I really wish the car had tinted windows. I would prefer to listen to Joshua Radin. He has such a calm tone to his voice. I found it exceptionally soothing compared to the rough voice of my father, especially when he is yelling at you to slow down. But there will be no Joshua Radin, or John Mayer, or anything else that can qualify as decent music by my standards. I will be subjected to listening to Bob Marley, the Rolling Stones, and Lynard Skynard. Eventually, that very sweet day will come when I get my license and I can drive without adult supervision. As old as my father is, he does enjoy some contemporary music such as Mary J. Blige, Flo Rida, and Eminem. As soon as I pass Driver’s Education, I will be the first in line to sign up for my road test.
In order to pass the road test I must first survive driving lessons; I must learn from both my father, as well as from Driver’s Education. I thought having a self proclaimed professional driver for a father would be enough to learn how to drive. However, according to New York State I need supplemental instruction in order to drive, at least past nine o’ clock at night. New York State has no business giving me a curfew. I guess a little extra practice couldn’t hurt. My father may be filled with driving experience; however, there is a difference between professionalism and perfection. My father is far from perfect. I think sometimes he is confused. The tiny Nissan does not carry over the same authority as his brown delivery truck. Double parking a delivery truck in a small city to drop off a package is perfectly acceptable. Double parking a two- door sedan to pick up a pizza is not. I have even been in the car when he missed a turn and decided driving a sidewalk would be the best possible solution. My dad believes that the rules of the road don’t apply to him. If only UPS knew.
It is time to attempt the dreaded maneuver again. With my dad in the passenger seat he is looking for a new spot to practice. Even if he is not behind the wheel, he is constantly scanning the road. His eyes are always moving, and so is his mouth. “Tree line to Tree line, building to building” he tells me. “Look ahead of the road.” He purposely wears his all brown uniform to reinforce his authority as well as his driving experience. My father made the right choice working for UPS instead of FedEx. Brown is more his color. Up ahead, he finds a small space between a Cadillac Escalade and a Ford Pickup truck. “Pull in there” he tells me. As tiny as my car is, there is no way I can fit these four wheels in that space without hitting the curb or worse the other cars. I drive right past that spot. “What’s the matter? I could fit a boat in there,” my dad mocks me.
I like to spend my Saturday mornings in the comfort of my bed, looking up at the plastic, glow in the dark, stars that I glued on my ceiling when I was in third grade. Even after all these years they still have a little glow left in them. Only one more early Saturday morning left, until I can permanently retire to my room. I have to bear one more day in a faded dark purple ’02 Ford Taurus, driving around the lonely town of Mechanicville. Belle’s Driving School does not want its students driving around a town that has a lot of people, double the cars, and four lane roads. Mechanicville has none of that. Instead the sad excuse of a town is composed mainly of blocks of side streets, has approximately four stop signs. If you look hard enough, you may just find a traffic light or two. There is no mall, hospital, or movie theater. The high school is the size of my house. There is no possible way any of us can get into an accident.
Most days all the students and the driving instructor drive together. Mr. Martin doesn’t say much. He is a short, stocky man. His dark brown hair forms a ring around his head. In a few a more years his hair will be completely gone. He slightly resembles George Costanza from Seinfeld. My dad and I like to watch that show together after dinner. Mr. Martin sits in the passenger seat with a clipboard that is just for show. I never see him write anything down. Every now and then he will lightly tap on the brake that is installed on his side of the car, and tells us where to turn next. He always answers Jenna’s questions. Jenna was blessed with beautiful red hair and the softest hazel eyes. Her laugh is less than beautiful. After taking a wrong turn, or forgetting to put the car in drive before stepping on the gas her forceful laugh takes over. She inhales all the air around her, and releases a few forceful laughs before repeating the process over. As obnoxious as that sound is, it helps to relieve the awkward tension that builds up in the Ford.
Carly is the other student driver. Her pin-straight, platinum blonde hair clings to the corners of her face. Her light brown eyes look darker from the black eyeliner and mascara. Her eyes pop with bold blue eye shadow that covers her eyelids. It must be hard to see the other cars on the road. She only wears skinny jeans. Not a wise choice for her bulkier frame. It is hard for her to move her foot from the gas pedal to the brake when the tight denim doesn’t allow you to. Her tight low-cut shirt hugs her every curve. She wears Ugg boots year round. Her designer Coach bag is a permanent attachment to her arm. She doesn’t even set it down when she drives. The bag constantly hits her arms when she tried to turn the steering wheel. You will never find textbooks or notes in her purse, only makeup and hairspray. She showers in cheap perfume. The awful aroma fills up the car, making it difficult to breathe. Her hands disappear under her gaudy rings. It’s amazing she can even grip the steering wheel. They are usually plastic and decorated with rhinestones and glitter. Her rings blind me in the backseat. It is amazing that her chubby fingers under the weight of her rings are able to text on the latest cell phone. Her lips are big from reapplying her bright pink lip gloss over and over again. Her personality is just as flattering as her appearance.
Today is the last day of torture that is Driver’s Ed. After we pass Driver’s Ed we can take our road test. Beginning of next week many of the recent Driver’s Ed. grads will be lining up at the DMV to take their official road test. Once I pass, I won’t need any adult in the car with me. This will hopefully be my last week of the agony under the driving instruction that is my father, Eddie. Normally Jenna, Carly, and I meet outside the front of our high school. There Mr. Martin is waiting in the passenger seat of the Ford Taurus. Today, we are to go straight to Mechanicville. There are not many landmarks in Mechanicville where we can meet at. Mechanicville can barely be put on a map. However, no matter how tiny any town in America is, there will always be a set of golden arches to welcome you. Not even Mechanicville can escape McDonald’s supersized grip. This is where we will all meet, and mostly wait. One of us will take a practice road test with Mr. Martin, while the other two wait patiently at McDonald’s. Then we rotate out.
My dad pulls into the empty parking lot and I jump out. He leaves Mechanicville just as quickly as he got here. I wish I could do the same. It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and if there were a breakfast crowd, they had already cleared out. The only person left is Carly. She is sitting on one of the orange plastic benches that are screwed into the floor. Her arms and legs are crossed as she stares off to space, not even glancing over in my direction. Jenna is already on the road with Mr. Martin attempting every driving maneuver that would be on the road test. I just hope Mr. Martin remembers to put his seat belt on. Carly and I have never been left alone. We always had Jenna and Mr. Martin between us in the car. I have always been grateful for that.
When given the opportunity I will always choose sleep over food. I don’t think I even know what breakfast is. Now that I am up and awake I might as well order something to help pass the time. A normal practice road test should take ten minutes. Fifteen minutes at the most. With Jenna behind the wheel, I will be waiting here for a guaranteed thirty minutes or more. Carly already finished her fries and is working on her Big Mac now. I need to order something. As long as both of us are eating, we don’t have to talk to each other. It is rude to talk with your mouth open. I make my way up to the counter. There is a bored teenager waiting patiently at the cash register. He has his red polo and khaki pants uniform on. I never understood why they have to wear matching visors if they are working inside. I can barely see his eyes, as he is fighting hard to keep them open. I would be falling asleep too if I was making minimum wage in a boring fast food place like this. Behind him is a woman in her late 20’s. She is wearing the same outfit. She has her blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing some sort of black cross shaped tattoo on the back of her neck. As she fills the orders from the inside, she takes orders from the drive-thru as well. The boy has his fingers on the register ready to punch in whatever I want.
It is such a tiny building that Carly will be able to hear everything I say. I am too nervous. I can’t order any food with the letter ‘r’ in it. I was in third grade. I replaced all my “r’s” with “w’s.” When you are three and in preschool it is seen as being cute. Once you reach roughly the age of seven it is no longer adorable. Having someone tell you that you sound like Elmer Fudd is not the highest compliment I could receive. In fact, it was just plain rude. I know that if I try to, I will slip up. I can’t risk that. I can’t have McDonald’s famous fries. A cheese burger is out too. Grilled or Crispy chicken sandwich is not an option. Snack wraps wouldn’t be filling enough anyway. Cesar salad or the Bacon Ranch salad would have been a nice meal. The only safe option left are the chicken nuggets. “What sauce would you like with that?” the boy asks me. I can’t order barbeque, sweet and sour, ranch, or honey mustard. I’ll have to eat my chicken nuggets dry this time. I grab my tray and look to sit down. Carly hasn’t moved. What is the protocol here? Do I sit at a different table? Or do I sit across from the girl who bullied me in elementary school? Too bad Dateline never had a special on what to do in this awkward social situation. Maybe I could just walk really slowly, and Jenna will magically appear and save me just in time. I line up my footing and step on one tile at a time. Times up. I take a seat across from Carly.
I never thought that I sounded different until Carly pointed it out one day. She made me afraid to read my favorite book, Arthur. He even used to have his own show. The books were all about an aardvark who wore glasses. He went through the struggles that any typical young child would go through. I always thought he was just a deformed mouse, but I loved him anyway. How is a kid with a speech impediment supposed be able to pronounce a word like Arthur? Carly would just never leave me alone. Without saying anything to me now, she still finds a way to mock me. The worst part was that I couldn’t even pronounce my own bully’s name right. I never could stand up to her. She wouldn’t have been able to take anything I said to her seriously if I called her cawly. She would always yell at me when I didn’t get her name right. We all have a different way of talking. I still wonder if I sound like everyone else; or if I am just as different now as I was then. When I was younger, I was told that I sounded like I was from Boston. Maybe I should move there. Then again, I would have to be able to parallel park if I lived in a city.
Jenna finally made it back. Just in time too. The purple Ford pulls up right outside the McDonalds front entrance. Jenna parked, blocking the drive-thru. I need to get out there quick. First I have to move the car, and I don’t want to be with Carly alone any longer than I need to be. Carly is about to unleash her wrath on the poor boy at the register. Apparently, she wanted extra pickles. With a burger that big, ordering anything extra just seems unnecessary. I have heard her yell more than enough in my lifetime. I sprint out the door and into the purple Ford. Mr. Martin’s clipboard is more than just for show today. He will grade me on my practice road test. I need to pass. If I don’t I will have to repeat Driver’s Ed. I don’t think I could take another semester of aimlessly driving around Mechanicville. I pull away from the curb and begin to drive down the dusty old roads of Mechanicville. I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a tumbleweed roll across the street. It is a certified ghost town. It looks like a setting from a John Wayne or Clint Eastwood movie that my dad is always watching.
Up ahead is a space in front of an old brick house. Mr. Martin changes his mind. He doesn’t want me to parallel park in the space he originally pointed out. “It’s too small” he says. I line up mirror to mirror. “I could fit a boat in there” I say.