Driver’s Education was a complete waste of time for the sixteen-year-old me.  I say that, not because I was one of those kids who had been driving since she could reach the steering wheel on the family tractor, but because I was—gasp!—one of those kids who didn’t know how to drive coming into the class and left just as unenlightened.  And believe me, I was in the minority.  My friend Rachel was the only other teen in the entire US of A who hadn’t started driving (ha, ha!) her parents clinically insane as soon as she discovered that a car would turn her into a Popular and Independent Teenager. 

Our teachers--mostly football coaches and other he-men--figured it was their duty to traumatize today’s Wild Youth into driving safely. As a result, instead of being educated about driving (which would seem to be the logical objective of a “Driver’s Education” class), we were educated about beer and death via a continuous stream of graphic, emotionally-scarring videos from the 80’s.  The mere fact that they were filmed in the 80’s should be ample proof of their horrifying awfulness.  I don’t deal well with blood or side ponytails, so after witnessing my three trillionth car crash, I decided to move to the Himalayas and avoid motorized vehicles for the rest of my life (which, apparently, was likely to end at any moment since “drunk drivers kill 98.7% of American teenagers daily”).

The football coaches decided around Movie Four Trillion (“The Night Carrie Got Hit By a Bus, Smacked by a Train, and Killed by a Drunk Driver”) that we were finally prepared to pair off with a teacher and take the driving test.  I was assigned the burliest he-man of all—a guy who liked to prove his manliness by cracking dirty jokes.  As painful and revolting as those jokes were, it was the thought of actually having to drive that made my stomach bile begin to rise.

Foul Mouth first took me along some quieter side roads.  That was okay; I finally began grasping the concept of staying within a single lane (although I still wasn’t sure how those crazy left turns worked or what the difference was between a two and a four-way stop).  When I ran only one red light and dented a single fender trying to parallel park, Foul Mouth decided I was ready for Level 2.  He flipped on the radio, made an off-color crack, and told me to get on the freeway. 

Unaccountably, since I had no idea how to get on the freeway, I found myself cruising down I-15 to the wholesome strains of "We Sing the Death Song."  I gripped the wheel, waiting for a plane to fall from the sky or a semi truck to topple unexpectedly (Movie Four Trillion-One: “The Morning Erica Got Smooshed by a Plane, Crunched by a Semi, and Strangled by a He-Man”).  I closed my eyes and I wished I were nestled all snug in my bed without visions of broken bodies and sobbing relatives dancing through my head.  The rest is hazy.  I haven’t driven on the freeway since.  And here’s the kicker: After demonstrating my complete lack of competence, Foul Mouth granted me my driver's license.  Sure inspires a lot of faith in America, doesn' t it?

You’ll be happy to know that, once we received our licenses, Rachel and I taught ourselves to drive.  We began by racing each other home from church every Sunday in our families’ identical green minivans. I usually won these races since I grew comfortable with a clipping 5 mph before Rachel even passed the 2 mph mark.   Even so, I had to pull to the side of the road regularly to let all the 25 mph maniacs pass, and several kind gentlemen actually stopped to ask if I was having car trouble.  Rachel and I also taught ourselves to make left hand turns and to operate cell phones while steering.  In other words, Driver’s Ed had been a complete waste of time.  Wait!  I take that back!  As a result of the class, I did discover one gem of wisdom involving males and Coca-Cola trucks.

One day, our teacher told us to sit for two hours at a busy intersection--a true rarity in Pleasant Grove--and take notes.  Rachel and I dutifully headed to the PG Library where we spent two hours watching the the downtown intersection through glass, devouring Lois Lowry novels, and making our essays as interesting as possible.  We knew our teacher wouldn’t actually read the essays.  We figured he would just catch a glimpse of all the four-syllable words and give us full points, no questions asked. 

But apparently we misunderstood the assignment.  No essay had been necessary.  So when Rachel turned in her paper and He-Man saw that page-long essay with all those four-syllable words, he was so impressed that he decided to read it aloud in front of the class:

“Upon carefully observing traffic at the Pleasant Grove Library intersection and conducting various tests involving strange chemicals and glass beakers, Dr. Glenn and I have reached a solid conclusion:  Males and Coca-Cola truck drivers (also male) display a wanton disregard for the law which places the intelligent, responsible half of society at a decided risk. Statistics prove that 96.38% of all accidents are directly related to men or caffeine or a combination of the two. . .”

He-Man lowered the essay and took a violent sip of Dr. Pepper.  “All right class,” he continued after a brief pause, “It’s time for another video!”  I have to give the man credit.   The moment he suspected that the class might actually learn something useful about driving habits in Pleasant Grove, he switched the focus back to the course’s true objectives: Beer, Death, and Driver’s Mutilation.