In New York City, only masochists drive cars. Children internalize that fact early on growing up in the Big Apple, and nothing changes that knowledge as they mature. Exceptions were limited: kids whose family had a beach house either on the Jersey shore or out in the Hamptons were eager to sign up for Driver's Ed so they could cruise those small town streets on summer nights along with the locals. Jersey boys, they all drove. Seemed a right of passage on that side of the water. We'd hit some frat house or other in our trolling for college boys on a Saturday night and end up drag racing on Route 22 in Mountainside, enjoying the reckless speed and daredevil antics so alien to the New York boys we normally dated.
My father pointed out that I should take driver's ed when it was offered at my high school. Growing up on a farm in Michigan, he'd been driving since he was 12. It seemed a good idea, but I couldn't enroll - although I was a senior, I was too young according to state law. I'd skipped a grade or two here and there and was only 15 that last semester. I wasn't particularly aggrieved by that pronouncement, as I didn't see any real reason to drive. I was going to graduate in January and start attending college up in the Bronx, riding there by subway each day.
Of course, at CUNY there were driver's ed courses available, but I was determined to keep my youth a secret on campus and avoided any circumstance where I might have to own up to being only 16. Felt the same the following year, and the one after that. Eventually, I didn't even look at the class offerings and was none the worse for it.
I married a Brooklynite who had learned to drive thanks to an older brother who'd gotten into drag racing. "SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY at NATIONAL SPEEDWAY!" the radio commercials would boom out. His brother, a slick-haired greaser motorhead, would race his 1969 emerald green Camaro from dawn 'til dusk and bring home trophies for his efforts. We began our marriage in a tiny apartment on Ocean Parkway, where alternate side of the street parking regulations meant my young spouse spent more time moving his car to new parking spots than driving it. I went to work by subway and he went by bicycle. But it was worth the parking tribulations, because on weekends we'd jump in that car and drive up to Mystic, Connecticut...or the Pennsylvania Dutch country...or the Catskills. Still, I had no need to drive.
Years passed. We moved to a co-op in Queens and finally to a house on Staten Island. With a fenced backyard and a bank account, we decided to start a family; shortly thereafter we were happily pregnant. Staten Island is one of the five boroughs of New York City, but that's hard to believe in a host of ways. Largely suburban, it looks like a cross between Levittown, Long Island and Columbia Maryland with a huge garbage dump and an endlessly delayed expressway cutting across its middle starting from the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Our house was way on the back western side, mere moments from New Jersey.
Technically, Staten Island has mass transit, but the train had a Toonerville Trolley (2 cars, limited schedule) quality and there were no stations near our house. I was told there was bus service, but there were no bus stops in our neighborhood. In the borough's defense, we were part of a recent influx of new residents lured by new housing within the city limits. Infrastructure was lagging behind our occupation.
Hubby would go off to work in Brooklyn by carpool and I spent the days working at home while awaiting our child. When I needed to see my ob/gyn I'd call a taxi. One day, in my last trimester, I had a dreadful thought. "What if the baby gets sick and needs a doctor...and I can't get a car service?" I asked my husband. Clearly, we couldn't rely on mass transit serving our new abode any time soon. "Guess you need to learn to drive, " my husband surmised, adding that we could purchase a second car for me so I'd have complete mobility.
Learning to drive at 26 was interesting. Things looked so strange from the driver's seat! Once I adjusted to the difference in perspective, I gradually built confidence at slow speeds throughout our neighborhood streets and the 10-mile-per-hour crawl on the expressway. There were no opportunities to learn to drive faster, which troubled my husband. In hopes of correcting that, he drove us upstate on a sunny Sunday and found a deserted road near his family's summer cottage. The lakeside community was closed and shuttered in the cold spring, the streets empty.
Sliding behind the wheel while adjusting the seat for my expanding girth, I put it in gear and began to drive, pressing down ever more on the accelerator as he urged me to go faster. The speedometer crept upwards...35...45...55...65...75 miles per hour! At first I was fearful, but the faster I drove, the happier I got, until I was grinning like a fiend while cruising around the lake at 85!
My apprehensions about speed a thing of the past, I was ready to get a driver's license. But New York City is a busy place, and even Staten Island had a waiting list. The first day DMV could set for my road test was my due date, April 14. My father-in-law offered to take me to the test site. On that perfect spring day, waddling, I got into the car and off we went. The baby had dropped into a read-to-exit, head-down position that made grace impossible. But I felt fine and was eager to get my driver's license. I was ready for the test, and had practiced parallel parking until I could do it blindfolded.
At the testing area, a uniformed officer approached the car. He asked us to get out, advising that he would check our paperwork, confirm our identities, and then enter the car as passenger while I drove the test. He told my father-in-law to wait on a nearby bench. In my ungainly fashion, I got out of the car and made my way around the vehicle to the driver's side. As I came into his full view, the instructor's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "My Goodness! You're certainly pregnant, aren't you? When are you due?" he inquired, trying to regain his composure. "What time is it?" I responded, incorrectly believing a little humor would lighten the moment. "OH MY GOD!" he yelled, turning to my father-in-law and asking if it was really true. Dad was already laughing and could do little but nod in agreement.
The inspector was terrified and livid, an interesting combination. We got in the car and he began the test. Checking my mirrors, adjusting the seat, adjusting the seat belt (no easy task), I was finally ready to roll. "Pull out, cross the street and then pull over after the bus stop marking," the inspector barked. From our position, that meant entering traffic and crossing the intersection - a distance of perhaps 80 feet. I signaled with hand and blinker as per the manual, entered the right lane of traffic, drove across the intersection while using my blinker and hand to indicate I was going to pull over, and brought the car smoothly to the curb just past the bus stop. "Put the car in neutral, set the emergency brake and put on your flashers," the instructor said. The moment I'd done so, he unbuckled his seat belt, opened his door and got out of the car, coming around to my side while frantically waving to my father-in-law on the other block, motioning him to join us. "Your driving test is over. You passed. Please wait for your escort driver to reach the vehicle. You will receive your license by mail within 10 business days. LEAVE THE TEST AREA IMMEDIATELY AND DO NOT HAVE YOUR BABY HERE!" With that, he broke into a trot and headed back across the seat to the test start area. All that parking practice for naught, it turned out!
My son was born 13 days later, at which point I was a licensed driver, and have been ever since. I have a weakness for fast cars and have spent the preponderance of my life in the southwest, where one can really press the pedal to the metal and see what a vehicle can do. Of course, I don't tell anyone how I passed my road test!