Driving test teaches son idiosyncrasies of authority figures

My son flunks his first driver's test. His second test, too. The driving part, not the written part. The first one was mostly my fault.

See, at my house, we drive five-speed manual transmissions. Turns out, though, I've been doing it wrong. And I have passed these sins along to my children.

My boy approaches a red light. He slows, down-shifting, like I taught him. Stopped, he now takes the car out of gear and sits, right foot on the brake, left foot on the floor, right hand on the stick, left hand on the steering wheel.

And the nice lady with the clipboard in the passenger seat "dings" him for that. Nope, she says, you're supposed to keep the car in gear while sitting there. In case you suddenly need to move your car.

Trying to imagine why, how and when the extra quarter-second it takes to depress the clutch and drop it in to first gear would matter. Emergency vehicle approaching? Car next to me catches fire? Naked person approaches with bucket and squeegee and offers to clean my windows? Man in really spiffy, expensive suit and tie wants to shake my hand and give me Louis Farrakhan news and ideology?

Whatever. Maybe the DMV has a slush fund to defray the cost of replacing the clutches they insist my son burns out.

My boy travels on the inside lane of a surface street, next to the median. Up ahead, a jaywalking pedestrian sprints across three lanes from the left. My boy slows. Then slows some more. See, I taught my boy that the key to safe driving is to (my exact words): "Assume every driver and pedestrian around you is an idiot. You have to drive for yourself and everyone else!"

So, naturally, my boy assumes this pedestrian is about to dart across the median and in front of him. So he slows.

The nice lady dings him for it. Says he's not allowed to slow the traffic behind him.

Gotta tell you, this one surprised me. Trying to imagine the jaywalker disappearing beneath the car's hood with an interrupted scream and punctuated crunch, and the DMV examiner saying, "Nice job, you stayed in the flow, didn't panic or swerve, and, of course, the jaywalker got what he deserved."

So, home we go, my boy and I, and have a few more driving tests to unlearn his father's bad clutch habits and wimpy aversion to running over pedestrians.

Undeterred, brimming with confidence, my son pops back to the DMV two days later to take the test again.

And, what -- luck of the draw? Karma? Fate? My bright and happy boy meets a truly awful and unpleasant human being. What do you get when you cross Attila the Hun, Napoleon (yep, short guy), Vlad the Impaler and Ann Coulter? Right! You get my son's next driving examiner.

Impatient and aloof, right out of the gate. No eye contact. The average farm animal has more social skills. This is an adult who is deeply committed to the idea that young people learn fastest and perform best via scorn, contempt and humiliation. Been a long time since I've met anyone who hates his job as much as this man apparently does.

So, my boy flunks this driver's test, too. And should have. He drives too slow in some places. Too fast in others. He chokes. Panics. And flunks.

I'm fine with that part. Really I am. It's the next part I'm not fine with.

Emperor Hun calls me over. So I can watch, I guess. He shames and admonishes my boy. Aaron tries to ask a question for clarification. The guy cuts him off: "Don't make excuses!"

"Let me guess," Aaron says, as we drive home, "you didn't say anything because of that thing you taught me about 'never use power you don't have.' "

"That's right," I say. "If I had confronted him, it would have taken even longer for you to get your license. Same reason I didn't punch him in the head right there on the spot. Because I'd be even less useful to you in the back of a police cruiser."

We drive on in silence for several minutes. "You're going to write a column about him, aren't you?" my boy asks. I turn my head in surprise and delight. Do my children know me, or what!

"Was already on the second paragraph," I say.

"Thought so," he says. "You get this look in your eye when people piss you off."

I wait, of course, until Aaron passes on his third try, and is in possession of his driver's license. Turns out to be the shortest column in history. Here it is:

Authority in the hands of a petty dullard is a form of low comedy.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling Wellness Center in Las Vegas and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.