Thomas M. Sullivan - Life in the Slow Lane

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-60174-085-4

Copyright 2010 by Thomas M. Sullivan

Cover design Copyright 2010 by Judith B. Glad

All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT, Inc.

Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com

The author would like to thank:

Kevin Quirk, for helping to get this off the ground in the firstplace

Judith B. Glad, for the keen editorial insight

And

Molly Sullivan, for her wisdom and unyielding love.

~*~

Excerpts from this book have appeared in the following journals: Word Riot,The Legendary, sfWP: A Literary Journal, ZineArcade (UK),Long Story Short, Dogzplot Magazine, and Litterbox Magazine. Thankyou for supporting writers everywhere.

I can't tell you exactly how I ended up teaching Driver's Ed. Maybe a sort of Car-ma wasat work. We all make restitution for our past deeds in some way, and it just so happens that manyof my life's relatively innocent crimes have involved cars.

Like that winter day in Connecticut when I sat behind the wheel of our family stationwagon, a cocky 15-year-old gassing the car in place on our ice-covered, uphill driveway aboutthirty feet from the garage door. I had that speedometer flickering at 40 mph and was screechingin laughter as the wheels spun and the back of the car careened from side to side. My motherbolted out of the house screaming, filled with gory images of what would happen if the tires tookhold.

A year later, I was inside a Driver's Ed car, on the student side of the front seat. Whenmy instructor had the audacity to stomp on his foot brake just because I gunned the accelerator tozoom through a yellow light, I cursed him. Certainly the law of Car-ma dictates that I wouldhave direct amends to make after that one. Throw in assorted high school joy-racing escapadesand a six-guy college road trip in Georgia that ended with a tumble into an earthen berm and theCar-mic judges have more than enough evidence to nail me.

Then again, maybe it was pre-determined that I'd land in the Driver's Ed seat because Iknow a thing or two about dead ends--especially in the realm of work. Oh, I've had myopportunities to build a high-powered resume and an enviable career. I've got more degrees thanshould be legal. Trouble is, I tend to flick them aside like a Hollywood actress discardingex-husbands.

In the '80s I scooped up a Bachelors degree in History with a minor in Business, which Ididn't use at all despite my father's perfectly logical advice to open an antique store. A Masters inAgricultural Economics in the '90s somehow led to teaching software to adults needing newcareers after suffering layoffs or debilitating physical injuries.

My last academic achievement, an Associates degree in Cartography, at least landed mea position as a draftsman preparing property tax maps for a state agency in Oregon. I workedalongside a group of ex-military guys who spent their time complaining about wives, ex-wives,finances, and children, and who only kept their jobs in dreary Salem for the benefits. You've metthese types, the kind of men who stay married as a form of revenge.

In the spring, after I gave a two minute notice to quit, I was so disillusioned with thework world that I embarked on a furious painting spree. I brushed my way through every roominside my Portland home, stroked on to the exterior, and might have continued over to myninety-two-year-old neighbor's house had it not been for the start of rainy season inNovember.

That's when I decided it was time to look for work again. I tried a set-up job for acarnival in East Portland, but on the first day our team leader had us erect the ride in the wrongplace--a natural error given his previous night's drinking. I immediately vowed never to go on acarnival ride again. And I didn't go back to work after that first day.

I tried a stint at a Safeway deli, where on the first day I was put on a busy lunch shiftwith no training. Standing behind the counter in cheap black sneakers and tight plastic gloves, Iendured a burly guy pounding on the glass display as he demanded a burrito while pointing tothe corn dogs. I didn't go back after the first day there, either.

I thought I might do better as a home-care provider because I like seniors, but I didn'tmake it past the orientation video. I cringed as the film gave graphic instructions for washing aman's private parts, and disappeared shortly after the topic turned to cleaning the foreskinarea.

By then, it was time for something completely different. That's why I was honestlyexcited when I saw the announcement on Craigslist for Driver's Ed instructors. At least I did liketeaching, even if it was just those software classes that lasted until the company went out ofbusiness. Also, I didn't have children of my own, so this would be a great chance to gain afront-seat view of the life of a typical American teenager. And while I personally prefer to travel bybus, I did have a perfectly suitable Driver's Ed teacher's car: a 1991 Volkswagen Fox with amuffler bungie-corded to the bottom and a missing third gear, which was no problem becausethat's why they give you four gears, right?

So I was revved. No way would this be another one-day job. I was heading down thelong road here...

That's how it began in January 2006, before I discovered that Driver's Ed has takensome unexpected and fascinating twists since I was sixteen. I was about to learn much more thanI ever could have imagined about the world of good teenagers with bad parents, honking withoutcause, schedules without schedulers, and the dangers lurking on quiet residential streets. Alongthe way, I picked up new definitions for reliable training vehicles, safe braking distance, thesplendors of suburbia, professional appearance, and Biblical values. I also learned a thing or twoabout mustaches.

I freely pass along my wisdom gleaned from my time behind the wheel. So buckle up,check the warranty date on the air bag, and enjoy the ride.

According to my notes, the Driver's Ed company is located in Suite 405. Well, the tallmahogany door in front of me does have the number 405 on it, but I'm looking at a brass plaquewith the name of some real estate company. There's no mention of any driving school.

I push the door open anyway, enter a silent room, and hike across a mile of marble to thereception desk. The lobby is excruciatingly bright and devoid of plant life. Areceptionist looks up from blowing on her bright red finger nails and chirps, "Hello," with falseenthusiasm.

"Um, I've come for my Driver's Ed interview," I stammer. "Is this the right place?" Iglance down at her desk and spy the latest issue of People and a bottle of nail polish,modern accessories of the downsizing-prone employee.

She laughs as she nods. "They all say that."

She picks up the phone, stabs a button, and heralds my arrival. She drops the phone inthe cradle and directs me to follow her.

I'm led into a conference room where a middle-aged woman and an imposing older manwith gray hair and a serious demeanor sit across from one another at a large wooden table, nottalking. The blinds have been pulled back from the ceiling-to-floor windows, and I glance downat construction equipment and workers scurrying around in a sea of orange cones four storiesbelow.