I Don't Trust Tim

By Cathy Caudill

As I rode with him, I found myself doing bizarre, worst-case scenario calculations.

Okay, if I was to stop the car, jump out and run across this parking lot, would he be able to catch me? I began to regret that I was a slow runner.

“Good parking job!” enthused Tim, my driving instructor. “Now, can you reverse out of this parking spot?”

My seat belt would slow me down for sure. The safety-strap began to feel more and more like a snare. He was grinning at me with his creepy smile.

He was writing comments down on his clipboard in his creepy handwriting. Tim was a 30-something-year-old man, yet he wrote like an elegant old lady! His penmanship was curvy and feminine and perfect.

I reversed out of the parking lot, and he directed me through the city streets, commenting on my good driving skills and pointing out potential road hazards. Like squirrels. Little mirrors were placed around the car so he could watch my face without looking directly at me.

He directed me up some obscure road in the hills outside the city—I had lived in Charleston all of my life, but I suddenly realized that I had no idea where I was. Could I outrun him in the woods? I looked at my feet and began to regret that I was wearing flip-flops.

My body tensed in danger before I even realized he was happening. He reached out and gently placed his hand on mine—my fingers curled defensively around the steering wheel, refusing to budge from 10-o’clock-and-2-o’clock. “You’re doing a really great job,” he murmured, while I inwardly wept and prayed that my driving lessons would soon be over.