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Then he laughed so hard that he had to wipe his eyes. “I know, I know,” he told me. “I don’t come off as friendly.”

I nodded. To say the least.

“But I’m not a bad instructor,” he stated. “For one thing, I’m patient about mistakes. I’ve taught enough people that I’ve seen everything that could possibly go wrong. Even penguins.”

“What do—”

“For another thing, I’m old,” he continued. “I don’t fear death.”

“Have you ever had anyone die during one of your lessons? What do penguins have to do with it?”

“Do you want me to pencil you in, or not?” he asked me, flipping open the dusty ledger.

“I guess so,” I said.

I had to get a permit first, which meant passing a written test. I was able to make an appointment at the Secretary of State for the next day, which gave me more time to study. Luckily, due to my abbreviated school experience, I had gotten used to learning things fast, like, memorizing facts almost immediately as I read through them. I took the test the following morning and I passed, which meant I officially had a permit and could get on the road.

The only problem, of course, was that I had never been behind the wheel of any car, even one that was stopped. It did seem like a bad idea to just jump on I-75 or start driving around at night, even with the supervision that was required. I was glad that I had a lesson penciled in with Mr. Marchand, and I got to it exactly on time.

That wasn’t good enough—apparently, I should have been there at least five minutes early, and this counted as late. “I’m not responsible for your tardiness,” he told me. “I charge by the minute, too.”

“I’m not tardy,” I protested. “I had other things to do today, but this is the time we agreed on.”

“Get in.” He pointed at the car that I’d thought was a hearse.

“Into the driver’s seat?”

“I already know how to do it,” he said. “You’re the one who wanted to remain a dependent child and skipped an important life skill.”

“That’s not true! Plenty of people don’t know how to drive,” I informed him. “In many places, it’s not necessary.”

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What do they call this town again?”

I looked around. “You mean, Detroit?”

“Also known as the Motor City. Get in!”

I did. The interior of the vehicle was just as dark and dusty as his record store. “Describe your side of the car,” he said next. “I want to hear how much I’ll have to teach you.”

I went through what I knew about the pedals, the ignition, the dials, the steering wheel, and all the other important parts of this vehicle. To my surprise, he really was a good teacher. Besides being knowledgeable, he didn’t mind that I messed up on which one was the brake (I did that repeatedly) and that I kept confusing the turn signal with the stick for the windshield wipers.

At the end of an hour, I felt pretty good about sitting in the car and knowing all the parts. “Next, we’re going over the engine,” he told me. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I already penciled you in,” he let me know.

“When do I get to drive?” I wondered.

“When I think that you’re damn well ready, and not a minute before,” he answered testily. “Switch.”

“What?”

In answer, he sighed, got out of his side of the car, and walked around to mine. “Go sit over there,” he ordered and mystified, I did.

“I thought the lesson was over,” I said.

“We’re going to dinner,” he answered and started the car. “Your treat at the London Chop House.”