Father's Way

FOR 15 YEARS I MOSTLY managed to put the terrifying notion out of my mind, and whenever unsettling thoughts of what lay ahead did manage to creep into my brain, usually I could kill them with an extra Jack Daniel’s in the evening easy chair.

But now the moment is at hand, and I have no choice but to face what is undoubtedly the scariest yet most important task of my life. I’m teaching my teenage daughter how to drive.

“Oh, great,” said my soon-to-be student, eyes rolling upward to accentuate the agony of hearing the news. “My friends are learning how to drive from their mothers or, you know, normal dads. I have to learn from you.”

I laughed, but I knew what she was thinking: double-declutching practice on Day 1, in-depth analyses of the friction circle (maybe with homework). Perhaps the lesson plan might even require her to join me for another full-length screening of “Grand Prix.” Then again, she shouldn’t have worried. As any father of a teenage girl will tell you, Daddy never has the upper hand.

With help from Google Earth, I found a big, empty, secluded parking lot (no mean feat in Los Angeles). I pulled into the center of it, switched off the ignition, and looked over at my daughter, suddenly looking even younger in the passenger seat. “OK,” I said. “Time to switch places.” She shook her head, opened the door, and as we passed each other rounding the front bumper I picked up a Doppler-shifting “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”