Lulu Publishing
Category:
Memoir
Publisher: Lulu Press
Type: Non-Fiction
Pages: 221
In the spring of 2006, following a decade of misfires at various teaching jobs, a closet full of college degrees, and an ugly stint in state government, the author began serving as an instructor for the largest private Driver’s Ed company in Oregon. He thought for sure this was it -- a job that really fit who he was, the launching of a career that would last until he was ready to put the brakes on his working life! The author was going to learn all about the world of teenagers while having a blast doing it. Well, not exactly. Instead, over the next five months Mr Sullivan learned more than he thought possible about poorly maintained cars, calm kids with angry parents, inefficient efficiency drives, scheduling blunders, and suburban angst. He also learned a few things about mustaches
Excerpt
INTRODUCTION
I can’t tell you exactly why I wound up teaching Driver’s Ed. Maybe a sort of Car-ma was at work. I believe that we all have to deal with some system of restitution for past deeds, and it just so happens that many of my life’s relatively innocent crimes have involved cars.
Like that winter day in Connecticut when I sat behind the wheel of our family station wagon, a cocky 15-year-old gassing the car in place on our ice-covered, uphill driveway about thirty feet from the garage door. I had that speedometer flickering at 40 mph and was screeching in laughter as the wheels spun and the back of the car careened from side to side. My mother bolted out of the house screaming, filled with gory images of what would happen if the tires took hold.
A year later, I was inside a Driver’s Ed car, on the student side of the front seat. When my instructor had the audacity to stomp on his foot brake just because I gunned the accelerator to zoom through a yellow light, I cursed him. Certainly the law of Car-ma dictates that I would have direct amends to make after that one. Throw in assorted high school joy-racing escapades and a six-guy college road trip in Georgia that ended with a tumble into an earthen berm and the Car-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 I know a thing or two about dead ends,especially in the realm of work. Oh, I’ve had my opportunities to build a high-powered resume and an enviable career. I’ve got more degrees than should be legal. Trouble is, I tend to flick them aside like a Hollywood actress discarding ex-husbands.
In the ‘80s I scooped up a Bachelors in History with a minor in Business, which I didn’t use at all despite my father’s perfectly logical advice to open an antique store. A Masters in Agricultural Economics in the ‘90s somehow led to teaching software to adults needing a new career after suffering physically debilitating injuries.
My last academic achievement, an Associates degree in Cartography, at least landed me a position as a draftsman preparing property tax maps for a state agency in Oregon. I worked alongside a group of ex-military guys who spent all day complaining about wives, ex-wives, finances, and children, and who only kept their jobs in dreary Salem for the benefits. You’ve met these 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 the work world that I embarked on a furious painting spree. I brushed my way through every room inside my Portland home, stroked on to the exterior, and might have continued over to my 92-year-old neighbor’s house had it not been for the start of rainy season in November.
That’s when I decided it was time to look for work again. I tried a set-up job for a carnival in East Portland, but on the first day our team leader had us erect the ride in the wrong placea natural error given his previous night’s drinking. I immediately vowed never to go on a carnival 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 shift with no training. Standing behind the counter in cheap black sneakers and tight plastic gloves, I endured a burly guy pounding on the glass display as he demanded a burrito while pointing to the 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’t make it past the orientation video. I cringed as the film gave graphic instructions for washing a man’s private parts, and disappeared shortly after the topic turned to cleaning the foreskin area.
By then, it was time for something completely different. That’s why I was honestly excited when I saw the announcement on Craigslist for Driver’s Ed instructors. At least I did like teaching, even if it was just those software classes that lasted until the company went out of business. Also, I didn’t have children of my own, so this would be a great chance to gain a front-seat view of the life of a typical American teenager. And while I personally prefer to travel by bus, I did have a perfectly suitable Driver’s Ed teacher’s car: a 1991 Volkswagen Fox with its muffler bungie-corded to the bottom and a missing third gear (which was no problem because that’s why they give you four gears, right?).
So I was revved. No way this would be another one-day job. I was heading down the long road here....
That’s how it began in January 2006, before I discovered that Driver’s Ed has taken some unexpected and fascinating twists since I was sixteen. I was about to learn much more than I ever could have imagined about the world of good teenagers with bad parents, honking without cause, schedules without schedulers, and the dangers lurking on “quiet” residential streets. Along the way, I picked up new definitions for reliable training vehicles, safe braking distance, the splendors of suburbia, professional appearance, and Biblical values. I also learned a thing or two about 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.
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