In
virtually every society males undergo a rite of passage
of sorts...
In virtually every society males undergo a rite of
passage of sorts. It’s an event that establishes a boy
as a man. In ethnically and religiously diverse America,
there are many such rites. But there is one, in the
spirit of E Pluribus Unum that transcends
religion and ethnicity and stands head and shoulders
above all others: Passing The Road Test.
My older son recently
experienced this transition from boyhood to manhood on a
wild, windy and rainy Friday morning. But ironically, it
was his dad that came face-to-face with his own rite of
passage.
We arrived at the Motor
Vehicle Commission’s Wayne facility on Route 46 forty
minutes early for his scheduled 8:30 a.m. road test. I
thought I had read and understood the guidelines for the
type of vehicle the MVC allows the test to be
administered in. (The inspector must be able to reach
the emergency brake.)
I had not.
The inspector took one
look at the center console in our Chrysler Town and
Country and pronounced it unsatisfactory despite my
gentle protest that the center console was removable in
a jiffy.
Failing to persuade
him, we drove all the way back home and changed cars to
a more suitable vehicle—in this case my BMW
convertible—which has a parking brake located in-between
the two front seats. I had offered to let my son use the
Beamer for the road test that morning but he had done
almost all of his practice driving and parking in our
van. And I really didn’t want to convey the image to the
inspector that my son, once licensed, would be screaming
along the highways of New Jersey in a hot, 3.3-liter
German sports car.
Less than an hour
later, we showed up for the second time.
By now there were only
three cars ahead of us. “This is it,” I said to my son.
“Are you nervous?”
“Very,” he shot back.
“Try to relax. Take
deep breaths. Remember everything I told you. You’ll do
fine,” I said trying to calm him down and encourage him
at the same time.
The inspector
approached our vehicle and I got out, showing him my
license and the vehicle’s registration and insurance
card.
By the time I had
walked up to the small white building where there is a
waiting room inside, the three cars that had been in
front of us had departed. That left my son and the
inspector sitting alone about 50 feet from the stop sign
located alongside the building.
Making eye contact with
my son and using sign language, I quickly reminded him
not to forget to stop at this stop sign since he had not
had the opportunity to pull up to it before the
inspector got in.
They departed and I
offered a silent prayer.
Ten minutes later the
car reappeared. The inspector got out and I looked over
at my son who smiled and gave me the thumbs-up. As the
inspector approached me, he said, “He did OK, but I
should have failed him because you were coaching him.”
I wasn’t sure if he was
kidding or being serious but I said nothing other than
“Thank you very much.”
What an idiot I am,
I thought to myself.
Sheepishly, I got into
the car. “Did you hear what he said?” I asked.
“Dad, I would have
killed you if he failed me because you coached me,” he
said half kidding.
After waiting in two
more lines inside the main building so my son could get
his license, it was official.
I drove the car home.
The silence was almost eerie. I was still upset with
myself.
I just can’t let go,
can I? I thought.
My son broke the
silence, “You just can’t let go can you, dad?”
Confronted with the
realization that my first-born was no longer a little
boy, I said, “You’re right, son. I’m still learning. You
passed your test today, but I failed. I’ll try to do
better next time.”
The sky cleared, the sun came out. We put
the convertible top down and laughed about it all the
way home. nGregory
J. Rummo is a syndicated columnist.
