I got in the car and buckled my seatbelt. The bright yellow “Student Driver” billboard perched atop the automobile could not cause enough humiliation to temper the joy of a 15 year old heart in possession of car keys; albeit temporarily.

My driver’s ed teacher Mr. Moore (not his real name), was a coach at the high school. I remember that my Driver’s Ed textbook was the only textbook where I actually read at least half of my assignments. That includes every class I ever took, through graduate school.

I also remember Mr. Moore had a penchant for showing every conceivable “Blood on the Highway” film made between 1955 and 1976. It was because of those films that I feared all “classic” cars with fins, because I had seen a film clip of a body skewered on the fin. I also feared the metal guardrails on rural roads that didn’t curve away from the road or toward the ground. I had seen bodies skewered as the metal guardrail pierced a windshield like a finely-sharpened sword.

Looking back, the seed was planted that a decade later would blossom. I grew into an adult that would see doom around every corner. Not so much for myself (for I fear nothing but spiders and an undetected run in my pantyhose) but for others. Those films, viewed at the age of 15, coupled with my EMT training, then Paramedic school, then endless clinicals in intensive care units and onboard ambulances, and finally nursing school, all culminated into a picture of a world that was a trauma alert waiting to happen. Now, I see something as simple as a teeter-totter as a potential implement of death.

But I digress.

My budding nervousness about driving was unaided by two inalienable truths of my 15 year old reality:

1. My father, who had gone to great pains to teach my brothers how to drive from ages 12 and 11 respectively, could not be persuaded to help me develop the skill.
2. My driver’s ed teacher had a bizarre nervous habit that was very distracting. What was this bizarre habit that Mr. Moore possessed? He said everything three times, three times, three times! The more upset he was, the more prone he was to give in to his subconscious compulsion.
3. My driver’s ed teacher took deep delight in using the “panic brake” that was installed on the passenger’s side of the Driver’s Ed car. Apparently the intent of the panic brake was to avert certain disaster. Mr. Moore thought it was to scare his students shitless. He’d jam on it on the dry pavement occasionally, but his Coach-ness must have detected the lack of sport in that. His main joy was to jam suddenly on the panic brake when you were driving on ice, sending you into a skid. “You have to practice pulling out of a skid! A skid! A skid!” he’d choke out between gails of laughter. We’d tell him not to do that, but apparently the siren call of the panic brake was too tempting. Just when you thought he’d given it up, it would call to him. “Jam on me! JAAAMMMMM on MEEEEEE!” And another 15 or 16 year old pimple-faced kid would have instilled in him or her a long-lasting fear of driving on slick roads.

Apparently, Mr. Moore thought I was a remedial student. He had me drive in reverse around the “island” (circle drive) in front of the school endlessly. “Miss Drunkbunny! Back it up, back it up back it up! Keep it straight, keep it straight, keep it straight! Turn the wheel, turn the wheel, turn the wheel! Not that much! NOT THAT MUCH! NOT THAT MUCH!” After hours of backing up, my neck aching from looking behind me, my classmates snickering from the back seat, I finally learned to back up with skill.

Of COURSE I’m not done! »

Then, it was time to learn to drive forward. I became a bit more at ease behind the wheel, and as a result, more easily distracted. We tackled side streets first, then major thoroughfares. It was hard for me to stay focused. After all, there was the radio to adjust. “Miss Drunkbunny, if you don’t pay attention and leave the radio alone, I’ll let someone else drive! Someone else! Drive!” Ugh, FINE. This is a good song anyway. Everybody, sing! “I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can… watch you blah blah blah…” (who can understand that exotic Canadian accent?)

I also couldn’t help but stare in the rearview mirror. Because, the gorgeous hunk of manhood Shaun McGorgeous (not his real name, but close) was always smiling and cute in the back seat. If I happened to make eye contact with him, I was enchanted.

“Miss Drunkbunny! Watch the curb! WATCH THE CURB! WATCH THE–” THUNK! Oops. Shaun laughed, and his mischevous eyes sparkled, and I was embarassed and enamored at the same time.

Driver’s ed saved my life.

One weekend when I was 15, I went out with my friend Misty. She was 16, and had a 1968 Chevy Camaro that her rich dad had customized for her. New engine, new paint job, those little padlocks on the hood, and even her name painted on the side. We’d “drag Douglas” and get tons of attention.

One Saturday night, her car was in the shop so we took her mom’s brand-new Firebird out dragging. We kissed some 21 year olds and got them to get some Everclear for us. We then went to the KwikShop and bought a gallon of fruit punch, and poured out 1/4th of it, and filled the rest with Everclear. By the time we were headed back to the country to Misty’s house, I was plastered.

Even in my drunken state, I could vividly remember the latest “Death on the Highway” flick that we viewed in driver’s ed class the Friday before. For the first time EVER, on the way home I put on my seatbelt. I then passed out took a lil’ nap. Misty was driving.

The force of being thrown against the shoulder harness is what woke me. We had been tooling along on the highway (at about 60 miles per hour) when a carload of girls drunker than ME had run into us. No one was hurt in the accident; however, I knew that if I had fallen asleep without the seat belt on, I’d have woken up to the sensation of my head hitting the windshield instead of my body being thrown against the seatbelt.

So, say what you want about coaches being teachers, and how they rely on films to do their teaching. Mr. Moore’s vintage gore films saved me from certain injury. Certain injury. Certain injury!

(Originally written and published by me on Rant-O-Rama, 2003)

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