The Stick Shift Diasaster

The Stick Shift Disaster

         Taylor Whitney hadn’t always been afraid of me, not until my junior year of high school anyway. After that year all I had to do was say “Hi, Taylor” and he was outta there. His big blue eyes turned from casual to horrified, and his six year old legs pumped as fast as they could, while his blonde head bobbed from side to side. Perhaps he no longer remembers. Perhaps he will never forget. Perhaps…perhaps I should start at the beginning.

         Christmas morning was always a big affair at our house. Holiday music played in the background and the darkness outside stared jealously at the pink lights on our tree. What happens when all the presents are opened, the stockings are no longer stuffed but our stomachs are? Then what? Dishes. Getting out of dishes was an art around our house. Some used the usual trick of dodging downstairs and others would lie on the couch claiming they had to digest their big breakfast. Yet I, in my old age, had discovered a better, more ingenious plan.

         I was eight months away from turning sixteen and I still didn’t know how to drive. What better, than a calm Christmas morning to learn while everyone was tucked away in their houses, catching up on sleep after the long Christmas Eve? I delivered my cunning plan to my older sister, Cindy, who at seventeen, had already received two tickets for her driving skills. We slipped out the door past my mother, who was preparing the dishwater.

         Our red 1988 Nissan Sentra was a stick shift, and would be my car to drive when I got my license. This meant that not only did I need to learn to drive, but I had to drive manually too. Unlike many of my friends, I would be bi-lingual in driving. Not bad.

         “Where should we go?” I asked, putting on my seat belt.

         “Well, it’s best to go to an unoccupied parking lot, preferably a church, a school, or any other spacious --- space”, Cindy said, trying to achieve an air of professionalism, yet not quite succeeding.

         “You’re a dork!” I said, pushing her shoulder playfully. In my best English accent I asked, “How about the elementary school, dear? I hear it has a wonderful driving range.”

         “Novel choice, my dear, novel choice,” she said, mimicking my atrocious accent. We both laughed and made the trip five blocks to the school. The schoolyard was almost abandoned except for two children riding their new bicycles. They honked at us with obnoxious horns as they rode past us. I recognized them as Lisa and her little brother. We waved back at them as Cindy slowed the car to a stop.

         “You ready?” She asked, undoing her seatbelt.

         “You bet!” I opened the door and ran around to the driver’s side of the car. Cindy did her best to slide over the emergency brake and into the passenger seat. Eyes closed, I inched my way down the back of the driver’s seat and landed into its soft bucket. I sat and let the feel of its power seep through me. I noticed that my feet didn’t even come close to the pedals. I reached for the seat adjuster. Just a little more…there perfect.

         “Okay,” I said, chewing on my lip, “how do I start?”

         “It might be wise to start by putting on your seatbelt," Cindy said, pointing to my shoulder.

         “Right.” I put my hand to my forehead in a mock salute.

         “Okay now start the car.”

         This was it. My time to shine. The car started beautifully and I pushed the clutch to the floor and gently stepped on the brake. I slowly let off the clutch and pushed on the gas. The car sputtered and died. Cindy just smiled. After two more times, I screamed in frustration.

         “What am I doing wrong?” I asked, trying once again.

         “Aundria….the emergency brake,” she said calmly, yet failing to hide her smirk.

         “Oh.” I said as I felt around for the brake release button at the end of the stick. I pushed the brake down and got back to work. This time the car didn’t die, and except for the annoying screech of the back tires, I was in business. “Wow!” I said, “This is easy.” The car pulled along the asphalt of the playground.

         “Okay,” Cindy said grabbing hold of the dash. “Now I’m getting scared.”

         “Oh I’m doing fine,” I said shifting up a gear rather jerkily. The car groaned having to change gears yet again.

         “Take this corner slow --- slow! That wasn’t slow.”

         “Sorry.”

         “Okay, shift down a gear, I want to try a 180,” she said as we pulled around to the far side of the school.

         “You know, driving a stick shift isn’t too bad. I thought it would be like really hard, but it isn’t,” I said stepping on the clutch while ripping from third to second.

         “No! Be more careful. You’re going to strip the gears.”

         “Okay,” I said, not really listening. “I hope mom lets me have the car when I turn sixteen.”

         "Take it slow,” Cindy said staring straight ahead. “There’s a couple of kids ahead, so careful. Turn the wheel more. Turn the wheel! The car lumbered toward the sidewalk. “Hit the brake! Hit the brake! Brake! Brake! Brake! Brake!”

         “I am,” I said wondering why she was so panicky. I was only going two miles an hour and it wasn’t like I was going to hit them or anything. Of course I could have been wrong, which I was. The first child, Lisa, I passed with ease, but her little brother, Taylor, wasn’t quite so lucky. The right bumper of my car hit the back tire of his bike and knocked him over and out of my way. Because I was still moving, albeit slowly, I drifted over the sidewalk and onto the lawn. Finally the car sputtered to an exasperated stop.

         Cindy glared at me and jumped out of the car.          

         “I guess that wasn’t the brake.”

         “I guess not," she said as she hurried to the fallen child.

          I, on the other hand walked around the car to survey the damage.

         “Hey, look on the bright side.” I hollered after her, “at least I missed the tree.” I looked at the five inch space between the black rubber bumper of my car and the small stick people might call a tree.

         “Oh jeez,” she said rolling her eyes. I sauntered over to the child and there lay Taylor Whitney, wide eyed on the ground. His blue eyes glared at me as we helped him up. His panic stricken face showed his fright. “Oh no! Oh no! He’s limping” exclaimed Cindy.

         “Oh he’s faking! He’s just scared.”

         His older sister, Lisa, laughed and agreed with me, and we watched as his limp turned into a casual walk. Cindy returned to the car and drove it off the lawn just before my mother and other sister, Jen, walked by. They didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. I could go on, but what’s the point. After all, the kid was fine, the car was fine, I was fine, Cindy was --- well, that’s another story.

         To this day, every time I pass by the elementary school, I am reminded of my date with disaster, and still standing there tall, strong and unfazed is the same lucky tree.


(1285 words)


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