I thought this was sort of funny...

So I'm posting it here. It's something I wrote for my creative writing course.

How in the hell did I get here?! My hands at ten and two, my knuckles white, my arms locked…I’m the epitome of the safe, confident driver. My sister sits in the gray fabric seat beside me, black safety belt firmly in place, her short brown hair, slightly lighter than mine, swaying back and forth as she tries not to watch me too closely. I hear rather than see her right foot thump on the floorboards, subtly prompting me to brake. I tap the brake pedal lightly, applying a gradual increase of pressure, and the tiny white car responds instantly, slowing to a semi-smooth stop before a glowing red glare. I relax my hands momentarily, flexing the stiff joints and restoring a modicum of circulation before the red glare is replaced by bright green and my hands tense once more. I shift my foot to the gas pedal, pressing it down a little too quickly judging by the convulsive gesture my sister makes as she’s pushed back into her chair by the force of my acceleration, and her jaw opens and then closes decisively as she decides not to tell me for the third time tonight that I need to accelerate gradually. I pull forward onto the pale, cracked cement, and enter a brace of traffic. My pulse quickens, my arms tense until my muscles threaten to cramp, and I nervously repeat a soothing mantra in my mind: right mirror, one blue car; left mirror, big Mac truck; rearview mirror, a whole lotta lights. Soon my mantra becomes verbal, a continuous ribbon of meaningless mutterings, cuss words, and made-up expletives:

“Hey buddy, I’m going the speed limit; I ain’t gonna speed for you, so get off my ass and go around me…yes, exactly like that. Oh, Lordie…Mac truck pulling up beside me. I can do this, I’m fine, he’s in his own lane, I’m in mine, there’s plenty of room…oh, crap-o-roodles, I don’t like this. Oh, no, I really don’t like this…oh-kay, he’s gone; anyone else want to pass me? Well come on over buddy…nice signal ya cheeky bastard. Yes, that’s right, I’m the slow driver, y’all come on ahead and pass me by…and once again, I’m all by myself. But that’s ok. Look in the rear view mirror, some lights way far back. Look in the right side mirror, nothing. To the left, nothing. That’s good. Look forward, cars speeding ahead of me. Check the circular thing that tells me my speed…oh, I might need to speed up a little…”

My sister says nothing; she’s heard this before. I should mention that this is my younger sister sitting beside me, taking an hour out of her day to be my “licensed-accompanying-driver.” She’s eighteen. I’m twenty-one. She’s had her license for over a year; I’ve had a learner’s permit for five. How did I let this happen? How did I end up a twenty-one-year-old college-senior who doesn’t have a driver’s license? Why am I terrified of driving?

Maybe it’s that nightmare I used to have, the one where I was riding in an enormous, hollow van with windows all around, huge screens showing me blurred-green forests, letting me know exactly how fast the van was going. Ronald McDonald was there, but he wasn’t driving. No one was driving. I was in a big, empty van, speeding out of control, and no one was driving. And my mother wondered why I wouldn’t stay in a car by myself if the engine was running and no one was behind the wheel. I remember those frosty, crunchy mornings before preschool, when my mother would start the engine in our old maroon car to get the heat going, melting the pretty ice mosaic on the windshield. She’d get me situated in the passenger seat, my seat belt strapped on tightly, and then she’d remember something she left in the house and tell me to stay put while she ran back inside to get it. Nope. I didn’t think so.

Flash forward to my senior year of high school, my first year with my learner’s permit, the day before I started a four-year driving hiatus. I was driving my Dad’s colossal, ’92 Ford Econoline van through the busy streets of Havelock when…
“Uh, Dad? Ummm….Dad? It’s…uh…it’s not responding. I’m hitting the gas and…um…nothing’s happening. Um….Dad? What do I do?” My voice rose in pitch as my nervousness exponentially increased, like it’s doing now. But I can make it; today’s trip will be over soon. I’m fine. Kinda. Ok, I’m in the parking lot, I’ve pulled into a parking space, and turned off the engine. Why can’t I take the key out? What’s wrong? What didn’t I do? Oh, I’ve gotta put it in park. I knew that.