Thursday, May 22, 2014

Learning to Drive in Inwood



By Raanan Geberer

I never lived in Inwood, the northernmost neighborhood in Manhattan. But we lived in Marble Hill, just over the bridge on the Bronx mainland, and most of my learning-to-drive experiences took place in Inwood. And what experiences they were – painful at the time, but sometimes humorous in retrospect.


During senior year at Bronx Science, everyone was learning to drive. Because Science didn’t have its own driver’s ed program, you could take driver’s ed at any nearby high school and Science would give you credit. The closest school to me that offered driver’s ed was the Academy of the Sacred Heart of Mary, a Catholic girls’ school in Inwood. I was a little nervous about going there, thinking I would be out of place, but I needn’t have been. The class was co-ed, and there were several other non-Catholics. I was one of three Jewish kids in the group – the other two were Jewish greasers from George Washington High School who wore black leather jackets and looked like something out of “Da Fonz.”


We first went out in the car in the “industrial area of Inwood” east of Broadway, north of 207th Street. The neighborhood was dominated by the subway yards, warehouses, garages and a pet cemetery. There were few people on the streets and there was plenty of room to practice. As we became more comfortable behind the wheel, the teacher, whose name I don’t remember, took us into the nearby Bronx. We went to Jerome Avenue, as far as Bronx Science itself. He also took us up and down the steep Kingsbridge Road hill, which in retrospect was a foolish choice when dealing with inexperienced drivers. 


It soon became apparent that I was as klutzy as a driver as I had been in sports. Making fun of the way I frequently took my foot off the gas pedal, braked and then put it on the pedal again, the teacher invented a name for me: “Herky-Jerky.”  Once, when he criticized me and I began a sentence with “I have,” he yelled, “Here’s what you don’t have! You don’t have control of the car, you don’t have awareness of the other cars, you don’t know how to turn…” When it finally came time to take the road test, I went up onto the curb and failed.


“Okay,” my father said, “from now on, I’d better start giving you some lessons myself.” Once again, I found myself in the industrial area of Inwood, but this time with my father as the teacher. My father had just bought a used ’64 Lincoln Continental. When this model car first came out, it had been my favorite, but now it was 1971, seven years later. Dad had bought the car for a ridiculously low price, but with gas prices going sky-high, it still cost him more than it was worth. To top it off, the car was so big, it was difficult to park.


When I was younger, Dad, who had once been sergeant in the Military Police, had taught me how to play the piano. Now, behind the wheel, I found that his teaching methods hadn’t changed: “You idiot! You’re going to back right up into the curb! What? Don’t you signal before you turn? You drive like a lunatic! There’s a car right in front of you—you want to get yourself killed? What’s the hell’s the matter with you!....”  In August, I took the test a second time, and just like the time before, I failed.


My father apparently realized that a kinder, gentler approach was called for.  The next year, I was up at the State University at Binghamton as a freshman, but in June he took me over to a driving school, again in Inwood, owned by an acquaintance of his, Jerry Kristol. I’m not sure how he knew Jerry – it may have been through his job or at the synagogue – but Jerry was a good teacher. The fact that the driving school was on 207th Street, next to Francesca’s Ice Cream Parlor, didn’t hurt. After each lesson, I had a cherry lime rickey at Francesca’s. The next time I took the test, I failed again, but only by a few points. 


My father, undaunted, sent me for more lessons with Jerry Kristol during the winter and spring breaks. To augment these lessons, he gave me a few lessons of his own, and actually let me drive part of the way to and from Binghamton on Route 17 a few times. By the summer, our family had moved to Co-op City, but I still took the long ride on the 12 bus to the driving school on 207th Street. In July, I was ready. I took the test again in the all-too-familiar industrial area of Inwood, and this time I passed. Within a few months, I was the owner of a 10-year-old clunker, a Pontiac Tempest. And that was how I learned to drive in Inwood.

1 comment:

Al said...

Folks on the Inwood Group site are talking about the ice cream parlor on 207th Street, 'Frantcheskas', which is either misspelled or the same as the one mentioned in this 'driver's ed' story of yours. Do you have any photos of this ice cream parlor that you can post on the Inwood Group site?