Marty was also taking Driver’s Education in high school, which was ridiculously simple. He easily memorized all the traffic rules he needed to know in order to pass the test and get his license. He was already driving Marge’s little Toyota on the back roads of Pt. Reyes (when she was with him, as his permit stipulated). Mostly he was just biding his time until he turned 16 in October, and spent long study periods with the Driving Simulator. That fascinating contraption was like watching a movie filmed from a camera mounted on a car dashboard. The images were viewed on a TV console that had a steering wheel, a chair, and pedals. It presented different live action scenarios that were intended to gauge the student’s reactions. The wheel and pedals were connected to electric circuits, and your performance was recorded and measured against a standard of what you was supposed to do in the prerecorded situations. Marty practiced stopping at red lights, not running over little old ladies crossing the street, and similarly exhilarating challenges.
The highlight of Driver’s Ed was getting to drive in a real car with the instructor. The students went in pairs, with one driving and the other in the back seat. The instructor was in the passenger seat with a clipboard and scoresheet, and had his own brake pedal that he could apply in emergencies. He had slicked black hair, and an attitude that he hated his job. Marty’s partner was Josh, a goofy kid who worked with him at Red Hill Shell as an intern grease monkey. Henry, the owner of the gas station, participated in the school program where he gave kids work experience in exchange for having ads in the school newspaper and yearbook. Josh was a funny kid – he may have been slightly autistic – and he was one of the unfortunate youngsters that were laughed at and made fun of by the other kids. He had lots of nervous energy, and was very forthright, but klutzy at the same time. His hair was cut with straight bangs across his forehead, which made mean kids call him a “retard” behind his back. Marty hated that word, because his mom had been a special needs teacher before she got married, and instilled in him a great respect for those who experienced the world differently than others.
Josh was very nervous when it came his turn to drive, and couldn’t coordinate his movements. He held his turns too long, and veered towards parked cars. The instructor was constantly grabbing the wheel to correct his course. This only made Josh more anxious, and he was trying as hard as he could, but couldn’t focus with the instructor getting more and more agitated. The car was wandering all over the road, like a wasted hippie driving home from the Slodge. They came up on a line of cars stopped at a light, and Josh ignored the urgent commands to “Stop!” The instructor had to stomp on his brake pedal so hard that it broke right off! Shaking with fury, he screamed at Josh to pull over, which startled the poor boy so much he drove the car right over the curb, blowing out a tire and denting the rim. Needless to say, Josh didn’t pass that class! Marty felt sorry for him, but it was probably a good thing for the other drivers on the road!
Josh was a likable kid who couldn’t quite figure out how he was supposed to act. Another time, he and Marty were working an uneventful night shift at the gas station, and he started playing with matches. Yes, matches – at a gas station. It turned out Josh was also an avid pyromaniac, which was definitely not a good choice for an employee surrounded by flammable materials! He delighted in flicking lit matches into trash cans inside the service bays, laughing at the smoke, and then putting out the fires. While Marty was taking a phone call, Josh got one into the can holding the oil rags and it burst into tall flames. Panicking, he tipped it over in an effort to smother the fire, and the entire can rolled out of the garage. Marty turned around in astonishment, and saw a flaming trash can rolling right towards the gas pumps! Josh followed close behind, waving madly at it with a towel in the frantic but ineffectual manner of Stan Laurel. It was like a scene from a comedy, except that it was about to get very serious. Marty dropped the phone and bolted into action. He dashed out and kicked the can in another direction, and together they stomped out all the rags just a few feet from the pumps. After that, Marty had to play the “boss” and take away all of Josh’s matches.
The next day Henry was fuming because he couldn’t find any matches for his cigarettes (because Marty had thrown them all away). He grumbled in a fit of nicotine withdrawal about the ragman, who never left enough rags when he stopped by. Fortunately for Josh and Marty, he never found out about the trash bag of burnt, oily rags that were hidden in the dumpsters behind the other auto shop across the street. Josh continued to demonstrate his talents as a peculiarly energetic klutz, and broke several pieces of equipment before an exasperated Henry returned him to the school’s work program director. The administrators determined he had “behavioral issues,” and he was shipped off to a special needs program. Soon Marty didn’t see him any more at school, and felt as if he were the only one who missed him.
Finally, his 16th birthday came, and the best present was the chance to get his driver’s license! He understood this to be a tribal rite of passage in American society – the closest thing to a coming-of-age ceremony. He knew he could pass the written test with ease, but the driving test worried him. He’d heard from older kids like Mike about the strict instructors they had at the DMV, and how you could do your best and still fail at the whim of a tyrant. The day of his test, he and Marge dressed conservatively, and drove competently to the DMV. Marty groaned inwardly to see a tall, dour driving instructor, who resembled a drill sergeant, marching his way. He had horn-rimmed glasses, a straight thin black tie, and a flat-top crew cut on which you could land an F-14.
“Mr. Mayne?” It was a question devoid of interest in the answer. “I’m Mr. Lurch. Follow Me.” Marty couldn’t avoid humming the theme song to The Addams Family as he walked carefully to the parking lot with intentional composure, as if he were riding in a horse show. They got in the cab of the truck to go over the “instrument panel,” as Sergeant Lurch called it, and his nose crinkled from the Pine-Sol cleanser Marty had used to try and scrub out the cigarette smell. He sat ramrod-straight, not letting his back touch the seat.
“Start the vehicle.”
“Yes, sir,” Marty had to refrain himself from saluting. The instructor didn’t tell him to put on his seat belts, but watched as he did it anyway, out of habit. He loudly ticked a few boxes on his clipboard with his shiny ball point pen: rat-a-tat-tat!
“Turn right.” Mr. Lurch was not a man of words. He mostly scribbled on his clipboard, while Marty kept his back straight and tried not to pass out from anxiety. “Stop here. Parallel park.” Marty performed his routine perfectly; the way Blossom won the blue ribbon for him at summer camp. Mr. Lurch was not impressed. “You know something, kid,” he announced in his stern, robotic voice as they returned to the DMV, “you made a lot of mistakes.” Marty’s heart sank under his saddle. “But I can tell you’re a good driver and you know what to do. You pass.” He gave Marty a form and exited the truck briskly, taking an audible deep breath of fresh air. Marty was finally able to breathe, too. He sat gripping the wheel, stunned in his victory. He was transformed! Free to live his own life and take girls out on dates! But he’d need a more alluring fragrance than Pine-Sol Marlboros. Marge quickly got in the cab and gave him a high-five; happy it was over so she could get back to the pet store. She didn’t get paid for missing time.
A god-like plastic card of omnipotence arrived in the mail a few weeks later, with a dorky picture of a long-haired stoner dude on it. Too bad he didn’t have a car to drive yet! There were no VW buses available for sale in his price range, so he bade his time and occasionally borrowed Marge’s Toyota for “errands” – even though it made him smell like an ashtray all day. He volunteered to drive the disgusting trash cans to the dump near San Quentin, just so he could use the truck for a few hours. His “ride” was definitely not a chick magnet like the Stanger, but it gave him unprecedented access to the things he wanted to do, like drive to the thrift stores to browse old books and records!
The week after his birthday, the Lynyrd Skynyrd rock band was in a plane crash that killed two of their members. They weren’t one of Marty’s favorite artists, but he’d just seen them at the Day on the Green with the Outlaws earlier that year. It was weird to remember watching the now-deceased Steve Gaines trading licks with Gary Rossington during that epic guitar solo from Free Bird. Marty supposed they were certainly free now, after all. It reminded him of the untimely death of Jim Croce in a plane crash in 1973, which also took the talented guitarist, Maury Muelheisen. In American Pie, Don McLean famously wrote about “the day the music died” in reference to Buddy Holly. Untimely death was a riff too often repeated in rock & roll.