I took driver’s ed. the summer before 10th grade. I ended up in the class at Lualuna Academy. Pretty ritzy, and more expensive than I’d anticipated, but our school, University High, didn’t offer the class
Mr. Kotsatos was the man who taught me how to drive. He was a fabulous instructor. By the time I finished the class, I could parallel park at genius level, and because Mr. Kotsatos, took me to the Police Station to learn how to negotiate the infamous Learner’s Turn at the corner of Young and Ke’eaumoku, I was confident I’d ace the license exam.
That Learner’s Turn was a doozy, the notoriously hardest part of the test. Many a nervous testee had destroyed a section of the family car’s left side by gouging it out on the concrete corner that loomed like the Titanic’s iceberg.
Mr. Kotsatos made me go around and around the block, again and again, chanting his instructional mantra about lining up the post between the front and rear window with the crosswalk signal post before beginning the turn.
So ingrained were his words that I repeated the mantra aloud when I took the test, much to the surprise of the examiner.
“Where’d you learn that?” he asked.
“From my driver’s ed. teacher,” I said.
“Hmmm, good teacher. You wouldn’t believe how many people hit that corner.” The way he said it, you could tell he was disappointed I hadn’t.
“It’s an automatic minus three points,” he continued. “Just one more mistake after that, even a minor one, and you’re finished.”
He pivoted slightly toward me. “Who’s your teacher?”
His tone was that of a detective sweating a confession out of me with a bright light glaring in my eyes.
“Ahhh, well, I think I remember that his name was Mr. Davidson,” I answered. I didn’t want to give him the real name just in case he decided to go after Mr. Kotsatos to tell him not to teach that anymore.
“Davidson?” he asked, great skepticism in his voice. “Where’s he teach?”
“Kaimuki High,” I answered with the confidence of a practiced liar.
“Kaimuki?” the examiner said. “I know everyone who teaches there. I never heard of him.”
We were stopped at the corner of Ke’eaumoku and Wilder Avenue.
“Ah, he was only there for this summer. He’s visiting from California,” I said.
“Turn left,” the examiner said.
His tone sounded like he knew I was lying. I made the turn.
“Keep going all the way to the end,” he said.
I reached the top and made the turn onto Thurston Avenue, then continued on Green Street.
“When you reach that stop sign,” he pointed ahead, “Go right.” He sounded like a growling bear.
I knew where we were. This guy had made me turn uphill on Ward Avenue. The stop at the top of the 45-degree hill where Ward dead-ends meeting Prospect Street is a terror, even for a seasoned driver.
He had it in for me, I knew.
The light was with us, but there was a line of folks making both left and right turns.
“And don’t use your handbrake,” he ordered.
Praying like crazy, I rode the clutch as we inched our way to the top.
My stomach churning, I asked, “Which way should I turn?”
“Go right.”
It was time. I eased the gas down and the clutch up.
I’d made it.
“Not bad, not bad,” he said begrudgingly, sounding too as if he was impressed, at least a little, by my ability to negotiate the turn.
“Head back,” he said.
“Which way?”
“You choose.”
At one point on Lualuna Street, he had me parallel park.
“This Mr. Davidson,” he said. “He taught you how to do this, too?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “He taught us everything.”
“I’d like to meet this guy from California.”
From the way that came out, I thought he might say we should drive to Kaimiki High right then to see if Mr. Davidson was there teaching right now.
“Ah, yeah, too bad, though,” I said. “He went back home already.”
I glanced over at him. The examiner was eyeing me from behind his dark glasses. Surely, he wouldn’t suggest we get on a plane to go find Mr. Davidson in California.
“Drive us back now,” he said, his voice softer than it had been at any time during the test.
When we parked in front of the Police Station he said, opening the door, “You can thank Mr. Anderson for getting you a perfect 100 on the test.”
“Thanks,” I said, “it’s Davidson. Unfortunately, I don’t have any mailing address or phone number for him.”
He grunted and gave the smallest smile of resignation.
Coincidentally, I had to drive my mom to a doctor’s appointment a couple later, and as we sat there, who should come into the waiting room but Mr. Kotsatos?
“Lanning, how are you?” he said in his usual upbeat manner.
I shook his hand and introduced my mother to him.
“Oh,” said my mom, “my son just raves about the things you taught him.”
Mr. Kotsatos beamed. “Well thank you for that, Mrs. Lee, and thank you, too, Lanning. Did you take your test yet?”
I told him how I’d passed with flying colors, even with that moment of terror at the top of Ward Avenue.
“The top of Ward,” said Mr. Kotsatos. “They don’t take the folks they’re testing up there. I wonder why he did that with you?”
I shook my head and assumed the facial expression of someone trying to puzzle out the riddle of the sphynx. I didn’t want to get into the whole Mr. Davidson lie.
“Huh,” he said. “Well, if they’re starting to do that, I think I should start teaching students how to negotiate that. Stopping at the top there is almost as treacherous as the Learner’s Turn. Thanks for the heads-up.”
He sat down across the waiting room and took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket. After jotting a few words, he smiled and closed it.
As I said, I hadn’t wanted to get into the Mr. Davidson deal. Over the years I’ve watched people struggle at the top of Ward. When I go up that hill – which is often since it’s on the way home for me many times – I still stop a good distance from the car in front of me. I’ve seen some drivers roll backward up there, sometimes a long way backward.
If Mr. Kotsatos did go on to teach students how to handle the top of Ward Avenue because of Mr. Davidson and I, I think that was a valuable lesson.
Every once in a while, you know, good things can come from lying.
Lanning Lee 