-- Tintown here... external links to a location if needbe. And here's my list of other stories if you like what you read.

(about 3900 words)

95% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 3.6 Flash! (but I fed AI the 600 word "plot" I wrote). Thanks to both perchance.org and ChatGPT.com for rendering the pictures! 

     ......NEW YORK TOAST: DRIVING AT 53......      

    VROOM-VROOM-VROOM. That was the sound of my Greenwich Village bathroom ritual: clutching the toilet plunger handle like a gear stick and depressing folded washcloths as pedals. After turning over the faux key on the toilet basin first...TRR, RRR, RRR, RRR... TRR, RRR, RRR. VROOM-VROOM-VROOM. It was a pathetic sight, but for me, magazine editor Maeve Segal Harrington —fifty-three, divorcing, and a lifelong New Yorker—it was practice.

   For decades, my world was limited to being a straphanger on public transportation, company chauffeurs, and my soon-to-be-ex, Arthur. Now that he is merely a signature on legal papers, I’ve developed a fantasy: a vintage '70s forest green Jeep Cherokee.

   I imagine myself driving it alone to Vermont to surprise my daughter, Sarah. But, finding an instructor who was both a woman and provided a stick-shift had been a grueling search of dismissive "no's" until I finally found Graciela. Graciela Ordonez...

   This Saturday morning in 1989, I roll off my creaking mattress and cover my frumpy bra and briefs with sensible black slacks and a spotted white blouse. My heart thrums with something unsensible. This isn't just about a license; it's about proving to Arthur, and myself, that I can start over. I am the Maeve who drives a stick-shift. Alone.

A sharp, confident DING-DONG reverberates through the apartment. She’s here. I take a deep breath, smooth a hand over my silvering hair, and open the door.

        ... 2  ...        

   Graciela is standing on my stoop. She’s younger than I expected, with dark, intelligent eyes that make me feel scrutinized yet seen. After a firm handshake, I eagerly invite her in, offering coffee and inviting her to call me Maeve.

   "Gracias, Maeve,” she replies professionally, “but we should get started.”

   Curiosity got the better of me. “I’m just curious—how did you get into this line of work? It was so hard to find a woman who drives stick.”

   Graciela’s smile widens. “In my home country, during the uprising, we needed to move supplies and people quickly. I drove everything for the rebels—Jeeps, trucks, vans. Anything with a clutch.”

   I blink, stunned. Here was a woman who drove for a revolution, while I was simply trying to rediscover myself. “That’s... incredible,” I manage.

   “It teaches you to be aware,” she says with a hint of steel in her voice. “Now, I am told you want a Jeep?”

   “Yes, absolutely,” I tell her, feeling more confident. If she could drive for rebels, she could teach a timid New York editor.

   “Then we will learn,” she said. “It is simply a dance you learn with your feet and hands.”

   As we walk to the street, I scan for a beat-up sedan. Instead, Graciela leads me to a boxy, beige Toyota minivan. My heart sinks. The dream of a rugged Jeep Cherokee flickers as I eyed the suburban "rolling toaster."

   “A minivan?” I ask skeptically.

   “Maeve,” Graciela explains, “this van is a stick-shift. And the driver’s seat is high—similar to a Jeep. It simulates the vantage point you want.

    She has a point. Pragmatism takes over. “You’re right,” I concede.

    Graciela unlocks the door with a firm THUNK.

    Graciela opens her door, and slides into her seat with ease.

   I climb into the beige interior and notice the height, feeling perched above the parked sedans. I look at the gear shift rising from the console and buckled my seatbelt, ready for the adventure.

        ... 3  ...        

   She pulls her own seatbelt across her petite frame, and with another CLICK, she’s ready. She inserts the van’s ignition key. There’s a faint, high-pitched CHIME, CHIME, CHIME, I guess the door is still ajar. She THUNKS it shut, and the chime ceases. Then, with a turn, I hear a  grinding  from somewhere between and beneath us.

    TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh.... pause...

   TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh.... pause..

   “This is OK, I know this van’s engine gets finicky to start it up...”

   TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, cough, sputter, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM!

   The engine sputters to life. It’s a hearty roar, not a delicate purr, the sound of a working machine. The van vibrates gently, a low rumble beneath us. The smell of gasoline and warm metal fills the cabin. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr.

   “Usually, it needs a moment,” Graciela says, almost apologetically, as the van settles into a steady, rumbling idle. “Still, this van is a good one for learning stick.

   She presses the clutch pedal with a smooth motion I barely perceive. Then, with a quick, confident motion of her right hand the gear stick slides with a soft CLUNK into first. Her left foot begins to rise, slowly, steadily, and her right foot, simultaneously, gently presses the accelerator.

   The van lurches forward just a bit, then smooths out, an almost imperceptible roll. VRRRRRRRR... As the van escapes the parking space, the engine roars slightly louder, ROOOMMMM!  then her hand shifts the van again a quick CLUNK to second. Her right hand is hardly moving. The momentum builds, the van picking up speed. It feels so… effortless. VRRRRRRRR..

   “See?” Graciela says, glancing at me. “This van makes it not so difficult. The clutch, the gear. It is like a rhythm. You listen to the engine, you feel the machine beneath you.” VRRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! CLUNK VRRRRRRRR...  

   I nod, mesmerized. Her movements are fluid, almost an extension of the van itself. My imaginary plunger practice now feels truly pathetic. She navigates busy 7th Avenue South, shifting up and down with an almost balletic grace. Rrrrrrrrrrrr... VRRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! CLUNK VRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! ... CLUNK The sounds are distinct, mechanical poetry. She brakes smoothly, the van comes to a gentle halt at a red light,.RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr... then accelerates again, RVRRRRRRRRROOOMMMM!  a seamless continuation of the dance. CLUNK.

   “See, Maeve, this van is very kind to a beginner,” Graciela continues, her eyes on the road, her hands light but firm on the steering wheel. “The clutch is forgiving. The gears slide easily. You will find that it is much easier than you think.”

   I’m not entirely convinced. Easier for her, yes. For someone who drove through rebel uprisings. But for me? My palms are already damp. I watch her feet, her hands, trying to absorb the choreography. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr... VRRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! CLUNK VRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! ... CLUNK...VRRRRRRRROOOMMMM! ... CLUNK. The simultaneous movement of clutch and accelerator, the precise timing of the gear changes. It looks like magic.

    “You see?" Graciela says over the hum of the engine beneath us. "The stick shift is not an enemy. It is a conversation. The car tells you what it needs, and you answer with your feet."

   "It looks so easy when you do it," I say nervously, watching her right hand casually rest on the shift knob. "Where are we going?"

   "Holland Tunnel," she replies smoothly. "We’re going to New Jersey."

    My breath catches. "The Holland Tunnel? Under the river? Just to drive?"

   "I am driving through the tunnel," Graciela reassures me with a warm laugh. "You just watch and get used to this. But I promise you, Maeve— you will be driving yourself through the Tunnel and ‘cross the GWB without batting an eye... Remember, Manhattan's an island. You're gonna need some help getting off," she said with another laugh.

        ... 4  ...        

   We plunge into the belly of the tunnel. The sunlight vanishes, replaced by the yellow glow of lights bouncing off tiled walls. The sound in the tunnel is always overwhelming: THUMPthump, THUMPthump, THUMPthump go the tires over the pavement joints, echoing off the low ceiling while the engine under our seats hums a steady, vibratingRMRMRMRMRMRM! I grip the edge of my seat, staring straight ahead at the long line of red taillights stretching into the dark, damp tube.

  "Relax your shoulders," Graciela instructs gently. "Breathe."

   Ten minutes later, we emerge into the bright, open sky of New Jersey. Graciela navigates until she turns into a massive, asphalt parking lot surrounded by warehouses. The lot stretches out like a private blacktop ocean, framed by a distant view of the Manhattan skyline.

   Graciela brings the van to a stop, the engine idling with a steadyRrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr. The whole van shudders slightly. She puts on the parking brake besides her seat with a firm SHHH-CLINK! and then she the engine cuts out with a final Rrr, Rrr, rrrrrr...

   “Your turn, Maeve,” she says, turning to me, a gentle smile on her face. “This is about of as empty of a dance floor that I’ve come across...” Her grin gets wider. “So, shall we dance?”

   My heart has begun to pound against my ribs. My throat feels dry. I have never, not once, been behind the steering wheel of a car. Not even in a deserted parking lot. The realization hits me with the force of a brick.  

    “Okay,” I manage, my voice sounding thin and reedy.

   Graciela unbuckles her seatbelt with a soft CLICK and slides out of the driver’s seat, walking around back. I take a deep breath, and begin the awkward maneuver of climbing into a driver’s seat.

        ... 5  ...        

   My hip catches on the steering wheel. It’s an ungainly scramble, but I eventually take the seat. It’s still warm from Graciela’s body. The steering wheel, slightly worn, feels alien beneath my fingers.

     I adjust the seat, sliding it back until my feet can comfortably reach the pedals. Clutch left, brake middle, accelerator right. Three pedals. My two feet feel enormous, clumsy. I adjust the rearview mirror, seeing myself, wide-eyed and terrified. Then after cranking down the window, adjust the side mirror, revealing the expanse of the empty lot behind us. I strap myself in, the CLICK of the seatbelt is a loud punctuation mark.

   “Okay, Maeve,” Graciela says, her voice calm and reassuring. “Familiarize yourself. Feel the pedals. Feel the steering wheel.”

   I do. My left foot presses the clutch pedal. It’s firm, but not stiff. My right foot hovers over the brake. My hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white. This is it. The moment of truth.

   “Okay, let’s feel the gears, Maeve,” Graciela asks me. “Over and up for first...”

   My right hand, trembling slightly, reaches for the stick. It’s not wooden like the one in my bathroom, but a clammy plastic. I push it towards me feeling a slight resistance, then a soft CLUNK as it slides upwards into first.

   “Good. See how little you had to move that over in this van? Now, downward for second.”

   I pull it downward, and with another CLUNK, it settles.

   “Good,” Graciela replies. “We’re not going to shift up to fifth gear in this lot. Only when we cross the GWB...”

   “The bridge?!?!” I reply. I’m not crossing the George Washington Bridge...

   “We will cross the GWB eventually, but today I’ll drive over if you want me to.”

   I nod. “This time.”

   I swallow the lump in my throat.

   “Okay, back to here and now,” Graciela instructs, “clutch in. All the way down.” I press my left foot down. The pedal offers resistance, then gives, sinking with a soft SQUEEEAK until it hits the floor. “Good. Now, the gear stick. Start the engine in neutral first. Turn the key over to start.”

   I take a deep breath, my eyes fixed on the key already in the ignition. I turn it. TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh....

    The van gives a violent shudder, a metal grinding sound, WHEEEEEEEEN-SCREECH! and then… silence. Utter, embarrassing silence, broken only by the rapid thumping of my heart.

   My face heats up. “Oh, dear,” I murmur.

   Graciela’s voice is even. “It’s alright, Maeve. Just release the key once the engine catches. This happens. Clutch in. Shift to neutral.”

   I follow her instructions, my movements stiff, awkward. Clutch in. CLUNK to neutral, and turn over the key. TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh....

   Another shudder, another CLUNK, another ignominious silence. How could I ever have thought I could do this? The beautiful Jeep Cherokee, zooming up winding upstate roads, morphs into this van in a desolate lot.

   “It will start,” Graciela says, her patience unwavering, as I take to the key again.  This time, I try to be more mindful. My left foot slowly, infinitesimally slowly, releases the clutch. My right foot, just as slowly, presses the accelerator.TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, cough, sputter, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM!

   "Okay! Okay, it's running!" I yell, my eyes wide.RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr...

   "Deep breath," Graciela says calmly. "Now, we put it in first gear. Keep the clutch pressed all the way to the floor. Do not let go of the clutch!"

   I keep my left leg braced hard against the floorboard, my thigh muscles quivering from tension. I grab the gear stick knob. I push it left, then up. It moves into a notch with a heavy, mechanical CLUNK. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr...

   "Now," Graciela instructs softly. "This is the important part. You are going to slowly, slowly lift your left foot off the clutch pedal. Do not touch the gas yet. Just lift your foot until you feel the engine start to drag—the bite point. Everyone stalls. Even I have stalled, many times. It is part of the learning.”

   I begin to lift my left heel. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr...

   Half an inch... an inch...

   Suddenly, the engine tone changes from a soft RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr... to a deep, struggling groan: VRRRRRRRR... . The van shudders forward an inch.

   Panicking, I drop my left foot right off the pedal!

   CRUNCH-JERK-HOP!

   The van violently lurches forward like a bucking horse! My head snaps forward, then back!

    RRRR, Rrr, rrr, rrr...

   The engine dies instantly with a metallic gasp. The van slams to a complete dead stop, rocking wildly on its suspension.

   Silence returns. A cloud of light dust drifts past the windshield.

   "Oh shit," I gasp, my face burning red with embarrassment. "I broke it. I'm so sorry, I so broke your van."

    Graciela bursts out laughing—a bright, encouraging sound. "You did not break it! You just popped the clutch. Everyone pops the clutch fifty times on their first day. Even the rebels back in the mountains."

   "It felt like an earthquake," I say, resting my forehead against the plastic steering wheel.

   "It is just physics, Maeve," Graciela says gently. "When you let go of the clutch too fast, the engine tries to turn the heavy wheels instantly, and it chokes. You must be gentle. Like holding a bird. Try again."

   My left foot presses down hard on the stiff clutch pedal. It feels like pushing against a heavy, stubborn spring. SQUEEEEEAK. I grip the ignition key with sweat-slicked fingers. I twist it.

    TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh.... The engine didn’t start...

    TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM!

   The engine directly beneath my thigh comes to life. My right foot hovers anxiously over the gas pedal. I grab the plastic knob of the stubby gear stick. I attempt to push it from its limp, wobbly neutral position over to the far left and forward into first gear. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr,.

   I close my eyes for two seconds, picturing the bathroom plunger back home. Smooth. A conversation. CLUNK. It slides in. My heart hammers against my ribs.

   "Now, gently let the clutch out while pressing the gas," Graciela instructs, her eyes tracking the movement of my ankles .RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr,.

   I attempt to coordinate my limbs, but my feet feel like blocks of wood. My left foot lifts slightly. The clutch pedal pushes back against my shoe. I press the gas.

   VRRRRRRRR... CRUNCH-JERK-HOP!

   The van violently jolts forward a mere two inches and dies. The dashboard lights instantly illuminate in a mocking, bright red display. My head snaps forward and back.

   "Ah, too fast on the clutch, Maeve," Graciela says gently. "Try again. We’ll get it"

   I turn the key.TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM! I press the clutch back down. SQUEEEEEAK. I wiggle the shifter to ensure it is in neutral, then shove it back into first. CLUNK. I slowly lift my left heel, trying to find the friction point. Vrrrrrrrr.... The engine struggles. I give it too little gas.

   Rrr, COUGH,-COUGH, Cough, Cough, cough...

   The van dies again, pitching us forward against our seatbelts. The smell of unburnt gasoline wafts up through the floorboards. My hands are shaking on the beige vinyl steering wheel.

        ... 6  ...        

   "I can't do this," I mutter, staring at the cracked grey concrete of the warehouse lot in front of me. "Graciela, my reflexes are fossilized. I’m 53. I should just give in and stick with an automatic."

   "Nonsense, Maeve," Graciela says, placing a warm hand on my trembling shoulder. "Age has nothing to do with muscle memory. This machine is just a beast that needs to be tamed. Take a deep breath. Feel the pedal. Find the biting point. Slowly, like you are stepping on a delicate eggshell."

   I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of old vinyl and New Jersey humidity. I turn the key again. TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM! . I press the clutch to the floor. SQUEEEEEAK. I slide the shifter left and up into first. CLUNK. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr....

   This time, I lift my left foot millimeter by millimeter. The soles of my shoes feel the exact moment the engine begins to grab hold of the transmission.Vrrrrrrrr..... I gently press down on the accelerator with my right toe.VRRRRRRRR... ..

   And then, miraculously, we are rolling. RRRRRRRR...

   "Yes! You see? You’ve got it!" Graciela calls out, clapping her hands. RRRRRRRR...

   The Toyota Van rolls forward across the cracked asphalt at a staggering five miles per hour. The engine beneath us screams, revving high.RRRRRRRR....

   "Okay, Maeve, ask for second gear," Graciela says smoothly.  RRRRRRRR...

   Panic returns. I need to clutch in, shift down, and let the clutch out. I stomp the clutch pedal. SQUEEEEEAK. The engine revs drop. Rrrrrrrr...I pull the gear stick downwards, aiming for second gear, but my arm is rigid with tension. I don't pull it far enough to the left.

  GRRRRRRRR, KRRR, KRRR!

   The horrific sound of metal teeth violently chewing each other echoes through the small cabin. My teeth literally rattle in my skull.GRRRRRRRR, KRRR, KRRR!

   "Clutch all the way down! Do not force it!" Graciela tells me.

   I slam my left foot down with all my might, burying the pedal into the rubber floor mat. VRRRRRRRRR.., and shove the stick into place. CLUNK. I release the clutch and press the gas. RROOOMMMM! We are moving again, faster now, shaking as we roll over the weeds pushing through the pavement.

   RRRRRRRRR.., The engine is screaming again, begging for relief. RRRRRRRR...

   "Now, third gear," Graciela says, her eyes fixed on the approaching chain-link fence at the edge of the lot. RRRRRRRR...

   I press the clutch. SQUEEAK.  Rrrrrrrr... I push the gear stick forward, let it center itself, and push it forward again.

   GRRRRRRRR, KRRR, KRRR!

   More grinding, like a blender full of loose gravel, but the gear finally catches. The van surges forward with a heavy, mechanical rumble. We are actually cruising at fifteen miles per hour past the rusty warehouse doors. VRRRRRRRR... .

   "Excellent, Maeve. Now, bring us to a gentle stop," Graciela directs.

   I press the clutch pedal down to free the engine and simultaneously press my right foot onto the soft, spongy brake pedal, while I shift from third straight into neutral. CLUNK.

   VRRRRRRRR... .  SQUEEEEEEEAL go the brakes.VRRRrrrrr... .RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr... .

    The Toyota Van nose-dives slightly and comes to a smooth, controlled halt right as I wanted. RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr...

   "Bravo! That was a great stop, Maeve!" Graciela beams.

   I let out a breath I feel like I've been holding for years. "Thank you," I gasp, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my spotted white sleeve. For a fleeting second, in my mind, the flat beige front nose turns into a long, glorious green hood.

    I can see the wood-paneled sides of my Jeep Cherokee reflected in shop windows. I’m mentally in Vermont, turning into my daughter's dirt driveway.

   "Now, let's do it again. Drive forward," Graciela says cheerfully.RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr, RrrRrrRrrRrr...

   Fueled by my sudden success, my confidence spikes. I shift back to first gear. CLUNK. I release the clutch quickly, thinking I have mastered the rhythm.

   VRRRRRRRR... CRUNCH-JERK-HOP!

    The van violently bucks, throwing us forward, and dies.

   "Oh, shit," I groan, my forehead dropping heavily onto the steering wheel.

   "Quiet your mind, Maeve. Do not rush the machine," Graciela prompts gently.

   I turn the ignition key over again.

  TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM!

   I try to rush the pedals again, my left foot slipping.

   VRRRRRRRR... CRUNCH-JERK-HOP!

   "Deep breath," Graciela reminds me. "Focus on the soles of your feet."

   I sit for a moment, listening to the distant roar of the Turnpike. I turn the key. TRIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM!

   I push the clutch down. SQUEEEEEAK. I shift into first. CLUNK.

   This time, I don't let my emotions dictate my feet. I hold my left foot steady at the friction point. Rrrrrrrr... I apply a steady, gentle stream of gas. VRRRRRRRR... We glide forward effortlessly, rolling over the cracked pavement.RRRRRRRR...

   "Perfect!" Graciela says.

   I clutch in. SQUEEEAK. I pull the gear shift down into second. No grinding this time; it slots in with a satisfying, clean CLUNK. I release the clutch and accelerate.ROOOM! VRRRRRRRR... .

   "Third gear," she whispers.

   I clutch in, SQUEEEAK, push the shifter up, let it spring to the center, and push it straight up. CLUNK.

   The van smoothly transitions into third gear.  I am fifty-three years old, and I am finally driving.... AND A STICK, ARTHUR!

        ... 7  ...        

   By the time the sun hits its late-morning peak, I have successfully shifted from first to second, kind of successfully shifted from second to third,  and brought the van to a smooth, controlled stop three times in a row.  And killed the engine more than three.

   Graciela looks at her wristwatch. “That is our time for this morning," she says, turning to me with genuine approval in her eyes. "You did very well, Maeve. You have good instincts once you stop overthinking."

   "I drove," I say, leaning back against the headrest, my legs tired and trembling slightly from the clutch work."I actually drove a car." I turn off the ignition key. Rrr, Rrr, rrrrrr.. Cough, Cough, cough... The engine beneath us rests, warm and ticking softly as it cools down.

   "You did," Graciela smiles. She reaches over and opens her door. "So... do you want to drive us back to Manhattan? Across the GWB?

   I look out the window at the George Washington in the distance, where ant-size eighteen-wheelers and sedans zip past. My heart does a quick, nervous flip.

   "I think," I say politely, turning to her with a laugh, "that I am not quite ready for the George or the Martha just quite yet. Baby steps, Graciela."

   "Fair enough," Graciela says. "Next time, then, we’ll continue our dance."

   "Next time," I agree. That bridge is a goal. A future dance partner. Of many. The Holland Tunnel. The Lincoln. The Tapp. Brooklyn Bridge.... I have a lot of dancing to prepare for.

   As Graciela takes the wheel and starts up the van,TRIINNnh,  RIINNnh, RIINNnh, RIINNnh, VROOOM! I settle into the high passenger seat. As we climb the ramp onto the massive upper deck of the George Washington Bridge, looking down at the Hudson River sparkling under the mid-day sun, I rest my right hand lightly on my knee.

   My fingers curl into the shape of a gear stick. And in my head, I am already practicing for next Saturday's dance. The beige Toyota Van feels less like a suburban prison and more like a dependable companion, helping to drive me towards a future I'm finally learning to steer myself‍ towards...

-- Miss Maeve Saoirse Segal

-95% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 3.6 Flash, but I fed it the 600 word "plot". The engine sounds and other tidbits were added by me. Inspiration came from the 2014 film "Learning to Drive”, itself inspired by a 2002 magazine essay entitled “Learning to Drive”.(No pedal or interior shots within the film, sorry)... The film’s male driving instructor and domestic automatic-transmissioned sedan have been jettisoned here due to creative freedom.The beginning newspaper and the ending magazines are parodies...