It’s been mentioned once or twice so far but it is completely true that I don’t know how to drive. I don’t have a driver’s license. If you believe the press clippings in my mind that I actually grew up in New York City – Brooklyn to be exact (see later chapter “Top of the Food Chain: A Brooklyn State of Mind” further discourse on this subject if you are the skipping ahead type), then there’s kind of New York purity that goes along with not knowing how to operate a motorized vehicle. I cannot tie a tie either. That may, or may not be, for pretty much the same reasons. There might be a little Peter Pan in me (but he’s trying to get the hell out to paraphrase Mojo Nixon). June had attempted to teach me to drive in my folks’ car in Upstate New York some years earlier. So it’s not like I had zero experience behind the wheel but it wasn’t much. I was skittish; I was okay until a car came towards me from the opposite direction – then I would find myself inexplicably pulling onto the shoulder. I overshot a left turn in town going straight into the gas station/repair shop and nearly scaring the grease from out under the mechanics’ nails – I had the Ford Taurus headed right at them before braking hard. In the four and a half years the first time residing in Los Angeles, I never even tried to learn. You’d think with as much practice as LA drivers get, they’d be better drivers – you’d be horribly wrong. I found the streets and freeways of Los Angeles nerve wracking. It seemed that just about every other time out on the road, you’d be in a near collision with a clueless driver. It’s no wonder there are so many body shops.

I also have to come to think that NOT learning to drive in a town of drivers and car necessity was part of my master plan NOT to assimilate. How fucking NYC was it not to drive in LA? Pretty, fucking NYC if you ask me! June drove so it wasn’t like I was totally stranded. Later reflection made me realize that it was a passive (yet massive) aggressive attack on June to never learn to drive. She despised driving herself and I know it pissed her off that I never, ever had to share that burden. Hey, chalk that one up on my side of the victory column.

But that was then and this is now. I had decided to acclimate myself and assimilate to living properly in Los Angeles and a great part of that would be learning to operate a motor vehicle. I hadn’t known this odd fact until the 3am the day before our coming out/breaking up St. Paddy’s day party with Colleen, but apparently her Dad had never learned to drive during his years in New York with her mom, Maureen. It was just another straw that broke Colleen’s back. It was just another way I reminded Colleen of her father – the father that had left her and her mom. Colleen had not forgiven him.

But back in Los Angeles, I dug up an old copy of the California driver’s handbook to prepare for the written portion of the test. I found numbers for a few driving schools and made some calls to inquire about lessons. I settled on one that would provide a temporary permit even without the exam for only two dollars per lesson. They were on the inexpensive side AND they would even come to Seth’s house to pick me up for my lessons. I signed up for three two-hour classes to begin my education.

As the morning hour approached, I found myself terrified; literally shaking in my boots. At the prescribed time, I walked out of Seth’s house, double and then triple-checking the lock. There was an older, pale blue sedan parked in front of the house. There was a squat, middle-aged Russian man sitting in the front passenger seat. He had his seat back and looked to be half-dozing. Hoping against hope that this wasn’t the driving instructor, I asked him if he was from the driving school. I had expected a huge, flashing “student driver” sign atop the car. But yup, this was the car and this was the teacher. He told me to get in. There was no other place to go but the driver’s seat so I walked around the front of the car and got in. I was more than a little surprised to note the lack of a steering wheel on his side. There was an extra brake but that was it. In all the TV shows and teen movies that featured a harried driving instructor taking his life into his hands with a teen behind the wheel, there was always the safety net of the shotgun seat steering wheel. Not in real life; damn TV – lying to me yet again. I handed him the check. He told me to adjust my seat. I was somewhat taller than he was so I slid my seat back a few inches. He told me to adjust my mirrors. Now, I am not an idiot – I had seen countless other drivers adjust their rear and side-view mirrors over the last twenty plus years. I had no clue as to what I was adjusting them to see – yes, objects may be closer than they appear in the mirror – but how close and what objects? No idea. I mentioned none of this to Boris (as I had come to call him in my mind). I adjusted my mirrors, looking, at least in me, like a bonafide driver. Boris told me to put on my seatbelt. Now with God (as well as Boris) as my witness, I swear but where did I reach for my belt? After twenty-five years always seated in the right; in the passenger side when I was in the front, where did my muscle memory automatically tell me to reach? C’mon – you know this, right? I reached to my right. I noticed this and tried to recover but the deed had been done. Boris had seen me reach to the wrong side for my belt too. Fine. Whatever. I belted myself in. Then this mad Russian, this Rasputin of the LA underground driving schools told me to do the craziest thing in the world. Nothing was lost in translation despite his fairly thick accent when Boris told me to drive. I stared at him incredulously. “Drive”, I said. “What do you mean ‘drive?’” Boris asked if I had never driven before. In Valley parlance, I was all like, dude, you just saw me reach the wrong, fucking way for the goddamned seatbelt and then you just say “drive”! Of course, this was my first time. I hoped that scared the shit out of him. Then, and only then, would we be on something close to even ground. Serves him right.

We took it back a few steps. Boris told me to put my foot on the brake. I looked down by my feet – there were two pedals, natch. I asked which one was the brake and Boris told me. Okay, got it, foot on the brake. Then he told me to key in the ignition. This I could do. I had started cars plenty of times before, so I was okay with this step. The car started right up like I had done this a million times. Then Boris told me to take my foot from off the brake. The car started forward all by its self! I always thought that you had to press the gas pedal to make the car move forward. Stop laughing at me right now or I’ll stop.

I drove off Seth’s quaint West Hollywood block, made a left, then apparently a right turn onto Sunset Boulevard. I put all of this together later – at the time, my mind was a total blank; I was in survivor mode methinks. Apparently, I pointed the car and headed east. A little later, stopped at a traffic light with my eyes locked forward and the brake pressed down as hard and as far as it would go, Boris informed me that I didn’t have to grip the steering wheel so tightly. For the splittest of seconds I glanced away from my bleached bone white knuckles towards where I remember Boris was sitting. I informed Boris that yes, indeed, I did NEED to hold it like that.

Soon, I was driving through heavy traffic in downtown Los Angeles, negotiating my way around busses. I would not say I was driving like I owned the road but it was as if I had, at least, rented a small portion of it fare and square. I drove for two hours straight. I made it all the way out to Santa Monica. Go West, young man? I had run out of road. We picked up the next student, a younger, blonde Russian woman. She drove me back home and dropped me off at Seth’s house. I took a few more of these lessons over the next week with Boris. I can’t say that I became a great driver but I did get over a lot of the initial terror of being behind the wheel.

Helen came to town while I was in the throes of all this. She’s licensed but, living in New York City, drives maybe once or twice a year. I know it’s the pot calling the kettle and all but going down the same stretch of Sunset that I had driven, I realized that I was, at least, a better driver than Helen. I had the same white knuckles on the door handle as she careened from white line to white line, pretty much unable to stay with in them. After we got to our destination – Quentin Tarantino’s house in the Hollywood Hills (Helen’s the actress in Kill Bill 2 who is sent to kill Uma’s character right after she discovers she’s pregnant) I mentioned to Helen something about her inability to stay between the white lines. Okay, I said that after my knees stopped shaking. Many hours later, on the way home down Mulholland, Helen pointed out to me that she was now staying between the lines. And, indeed she was, but she was also, to the angry consternation of those driving behind her, going 10MPH. I had checked the speedometer and pointed that out to her. Yes, this was also right about the same time I was asked if I wanted to walk home. I seriously considered the pro’s and con’s and decided to shut the fuck up and to hold on for dear life.

I don’t think I will ever love driving as many of my friends have assured me I will. And I didn’t actually get my license then, but mark my words dear readers, I will. I promise good and fair warning when that time does come. Maybe sometimes you can teach an old dog a new trick.