The Driving Instructor

I’m back! It’s been a wonderful holiday, and now it’s back to daily writing prompts.

40. Car Keys: Write about someone getting their driver’s license for the first time.

“I’m gonna KILL YA!

“(I’m not really gonna kill ya.) I’M GONNA KILL YA!”

Such were the comforting words of Manny, my driving instructor.

At age 19, I was relatively late to the driving thing. Most of my college friends had had their drivers licenses since they were sixteen.

“Speed UP! Speed UP!”

“No, no, NO! SLOW DOWN!”


Manny wore rings on his fingers. His carefully coiffed dark brown hair shot upwards out of bright white roots. His deeply tanned face was wrinkled as a raisin, and though he probably wasn’t 50, he looked older.

He was liberal with the use of his passenger side break, and with his gesticulations. Each wild wave of his hands made me cringe behind the wheel as I crawled nervously through the streets of Fall River, MA.

Rings flashed as fingers flailed. “THAT’S not how you pahrallel pahk! Pull fahwahd! Right next to the othah cah! NOT THAT CLOSE! I’M GONNA KILL YA!!”

Who could fail to pass a driver’s test with flying colors after such instruction?

I only hope Manny is still teaching driving when my kids need to learn. Wherever we live, I’ll get them to Fall River so that Manny can wave his hands wildly in the air and shout,