How I got my driver's license (Part 3)
A short story of my early life in America
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Today's post is a continuation of Part 1 and Part 2 of the story.
If you asked me whether Frank was a good driving instructor, I’d probably recommend finding someone else. His instruction was okay, but he could use some serious coaching on how to give feedback. During our first driving lesson—after the overpriced theory class—he slapped my wrist twice for having my hands “in the wrong place” while turning the steering wheel. I am a paying client, and he can do that?
“You’re gripping the wheel too tightly,” he said, “Why are you so tense?”
His question reminded me of my aunt, my dad’s younger sister. Every time my extended family gathered for yum cha in my teenage years, she’d look at my face and exclaim, “Ai-ya, Jimmy-ah, why you have so many pimples? Especially that big spot on your nose!” Middle-aged Cantonese people love to ask "why" when they see something that bothers them—often things you can’t change, like your looks—as if there’s a profound explanation behind it. (A distant relative I hadn’t seen in years recently greeted me with, “Wow, why has your hairline receded so much?”)
Frank aside, driving itself was thrilling. At first, I struggled with braking smoothly. We were creeping through a quiet suburban neighborhood when a kid on a bike suddenly appeared at the corner. I panicked and slammed on the brake, and the car came to an abrupt stop. After about an hour of practice, though, something clicked: I started to get the feel of gently slowing the car with a smooth, steady motion. Little by little, driving began to feel more natural.
I did have to resist braking with my left foot, though.
Frank hadn’t seemed particularly impressed with me, so I assumed we would repeat the same drills the following week. But when I entered his car, he asked, “Ready for the freeway?” The freeway felt like a huge step up, but Frank looked pleased when I accepted the challenge.
We left the neighborhood and merged onto Lawrence Expressway. Frank told me to take the ramp on the right onto I-280 South. My heart raced—I had been on this freeway many times, but only as a passenger. This is happening.
When the light turned green, Frank urged me to accelerate. I pressed on the pedal, but it wasn’t enough for him. “Faster, faster, faster!” he shouted. “You need to match the speed of all the other cars. Push the pedal all the way down!” All the way? That seems ridiculously fast.
Fighting against the instinct to stay slow, I pushed the car to 60 miles per hour, and the Nissan blended into the flow of traffic. Driving at that speed for the first time was exhilarating. Growing more confident, I took a deep breath, signaled, and moved to the left lane. Familiar freeway exits came into view: Saratoga Avenue, home to the Japanese supermarket Mitsuwa. Winchester Boulevard, where an eccentric built a mystery mansion with 10,000 windows and staircases that would suddenly end. And, of course, Hamilton Avenue, where my favorite store stood: Fry’s Electronics.
“Let’s head to Los Gatos,” Frank said. “I send all my students there.” According to him, it is the easiest DMV for the driving test in the area. It uses one simple route and doesn’t test parallel parking. The only challenge is a single unprotected left turn. “It is pretty straightforward.”
After four lessons, I was ready to take the test, but Frank the salesman suggested I take one more class “just to be extra familiar with the route.” I agreed to it—partly out of caution, partly because I had difficulty saying no.
The day after my 18th birthday, Frank drove me to the Los Gatos DMV on a warm, sunny California morning. He reminded me that technically I wasn’t supposed to know the route in advance. “Don’t be stupid and signal before they tell you to,” he said. “Just wait for the instructions.”
A brunette woman asked if I was ready for the test. Frank offered more last-minute advice before walking away. “Your examiner is pretty picky. She failed a few of my students,” he added. “Remember to exaggerate your neck motion when you check for traffic!”
I mentally replayed the key points from our lessons over the past two months: full-second pauses at each stop sign, clear neck movements left and right to check cross-traffic at intersections, blind spot checks after signaling, and above all, hands firmly on the wheel and keep it slow.
The examiner guided me on the same route we’d practiced: a left turn to a tree-lined street, followed by a right onto the main road. Everything felt smooth and steady. My only worry was the one intersection with potential traffic, where I might have to make an unprotected left turn when the light turned amber. But as luck would have it, the light stayed green, and the intersection was empty. The test wrapped up with backing up a few yards along the curb. I was surprised by how uneventful it was.
I returned to Frank and handed him the results. “Zero errors?” he grinned. “Not bad, especially with that woman!”
Frank seemed to be in a fantastic mood. Before the test, he had promised to treat me to lunch at Subway if I passed, but he changed his mind. “Let’s go to a Vietnamese place instead.” For a moment, I thought that was a generous upgrade. Then I remembered I had paid him $300 for lessons in total.
We both ordered pho at the restaurant. Vietnamese noodle soup was new to me, so I watched how Frank ate it. Since there were no sauce plates, Frank mixed hoisin sauce and sriracha in his spoon and dipped the noodles and meat into it, rather than adding the sauces directly to the bowl. That looked like a clever move, so I followed suit.
After the meal, we sat in awkward silence, waiting for the bill. I tried to think of something to say, but my mind was blank. Then, out of nowhere, Frank spoke up.
“I know a family friend who is around your age,” he said. “She lives in San Francisco. You want to meet her?”
That question floored me. Never in a million years did I expect Frank to moonlight as a matchmaker. While I appreciated his help in getting my driver’s license—and the free bowl of pho—I felt it was time to close the chapter. Who knows if he's up to some funny business?
“Um, no, thank you,” I replied, “I should probably head home.”
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