Using only my elbows, I push open the greasy doors of the Santa Monica
Department of Motor Vehicles and suddenly hope that I have a few handi-wipes in
my glove box. In the DMV lobby, I quickly spin in a half-circle, getting my
bearings.
Like a zombie to brains or a lamb
to the slaughter,
I follow a pack of unwashed and undocumented toward at kiosk labeled
“Information / Información”.
“Driver’s
License appointment?”, I ask.
A
disinterested drone
grunts and gestures toward a different line. Obediently, I get in line. Another
disinterested drone grunts and hands me a ticket which reads “F 0181”. He then tells
me to sit down and wait for “F 0181” to be called.
If I had
company, I would have said, “Look, my ticket says ‘Eff! Oh, I ate one!” But,
alas, I was alone. And the woman sitting next to me was too involved with her
gaggle of children to be interested. Besides, “Carumba! Yo comí uno!” has
nothing to do with “F 0181” so the humor would probably have been lost on her.
From hidden
speakers, a haunting female voice calls out letters and numbers. “C 1203”, “F
0175”, “H 3031”. Her voice is not quite robotic, not quite human. Somewhere in
the recesses of my brain, I expect her to say “Capricorn 15’s. Last day.
Capricorn 15's. Carousel
begins.”
My number
is called and I head to counter number 3. There waiting for me is the most
polite DMV employee I’ve ever encountered. Though sporting a head
of intimidating cornrows, he shocks and dazzles me with phrases like “please”, “sir”, “thank
you” and “Mr. Gentile”. Truly a first. Cornrows and I chat for a bit, do some
paperwork and then it’s time for my vision test.
Ala Vanna
White, He waves a hand toward an eye chart hanging behind him.
“Mr.
Gentile”, he says, “I’m going to cover your left eye. When you’re ready, please
read line C-3.”
“Ok”, I
take a deep breath and say, “E – A – T – M – E”
He squints
at his answer key, puzzled. Then turns around and looks at the chart. Finally,
he laughs.
“Aw, shoot!
Ha ha!”, he calls over to Shelia at counter 2, “Sheila! Sheila, this guy just
spelled Eat me! Ha ha!”
Sheila
responds unimpressed, “Mmm hmm… y’all got yourself a funny one, huh?”
I guess
Sheila’s already seen it all. Ah well.
I quit
goofing off, pass my eye exam and head over toward the final challenge. The
Written Exam: 36 multiple choice questions taken from the California driving manual.
Thanks to the Intarweb, preparing
for the “Written” (as we say in the biz) is pretty easy. You watch a Flash
tutorial, then take a few sample
tests online. Most questions are common sense:
1) When a blind pedestrian is
crossing the street in front of you, you should:
A) Drive around him
B) Wait for him to cross the street
C) Tell him it’s safe to cross
Seriously.
I’m not being funny. Most questions are like that. There are a few “real” tidbits
of information like knowing what a “red curb” is and what the legal
blood-alcohol limit is, but mostly it’s just choosing the answer that *isn’t*
ridiculous.
I approach
the counter, hand the attendant my paperwork and she gives me a long, thin
sheet of paper with 18 questions on either side.
I ask her
if cheating is allowed.
She
replies, “Only if you get caught.”
I smile. I
like her. I contemplate using my “Eff! Oh, I ate one!” joke on her, and then I
think better of it. We leave each other wanting more.
“Take a
number-two pencil and have seat”, she offers, “You can take as much time as you
need.”
I consider
the can of number-two pencils with suspicion. Using my finger tips only, I fish out
the least chewed, least sticky pencil in the can. Again, I’m hoping, nee, praying that there are handi-wipes in
the glove.
I grab a
seat in the front like the good nerd that I am and crack my neck. It’s go time.
Immediately
I see that the questions are EXACTLY the same as the questions online. Same
questions. Same stupid answers. Same everything.
“C… C… B…
A… B… Are you kidding me?”
I’m
cruising now.
“C…, duh.
A… B…. A… C…. ”
“Written”,
I say to myself, “You are my bitch.”
I finish
the test in LITERALLY four minutes. Most questions don’t even require reading
fully because I’ve already studied them at home. My biggest concern is seeing
if any of my answers spell “ABACAB”, my favorite
song by Genesis.
I get up
and head back to my witty proctor friend. I notice that the tall dude at the
desk next to me is annoyed that I’ve finished so quickly. Ah, just like so many
grammar school tests. I waggle my eyebrows at him.
As I return
to the front desk, the attendant says, “Damn. You cheat fast.”
I really like her.
She takes
my test, and holds it next to an answer key.
Check,
check, check, check… all correct. 18 for 18. Of course.
She flips my
test over to check the remaining 18.
“Oops, you
missed one.” She places a red line through question 24. “35 out of 36. Best
score today.”
She walks
off to print out some paperwork as I stand there in stunned disbelief.
Immediately I hope the tall dude didn’t hear that I missed a question. My rep,
you know.
Astounded,
I take a closer look at the answer key. Then at my test. Then at the key.
SHE
MIS-MARKED IT.
I really
got question 24 correct.
24) It’s night. The car coming
toward you has its high beams on making it difficult to see. You should:
A) Look toward the left edge of the
road
B) Look toward the right edge of the
road
C) Look straight ahead in your lane
I chose
“B”, the correct answer. She marked it wrong. I feel my face and ears flush.
I’ve got a
dilemma. Here I am: the Teacher’s Pet and
the Class Nerd with the high score of the day. I’ve aced this thing. But I am
TORMENTED by that red blemish on my test. I need to say something. I need her
to see that I got a perfect score. I need her to know that I got the best score
of the day, the month, ever!
She returns
with a slip of paper and says, “Here’s your temporary. Your real license will
arrive in the mail in a week or two.” She takes my imperfect test away before I
can say a word.
I reach a
hand out. “Uh. Can I keep that? I want to put it on my fridge”. That red mark
is like a sharp pebble in my shoe; driving me mad.
“Seriously?
You want it?”
I paused
for what seemed like a long time, then sighed and said, “Nah. You keep it. Put
it on *your* fridge.”
She laughs.
I laugh. I walk out with my new California State Driver’s License trying to
shake off my neuroses.
I pass
another group of unwashed/undocumented. Or were they same ones? I traverse the
lobby and exit the slimy doors.
The sun
hits my face and salinated ocean air fills my lungs. I feel like I almost
belong here; like California is becoming my home.
I plop in
my car, toss aside my stack of papers and immediately open the glove box.
Damn it.
No wipes.
Neuroses -
2, AJ – 0.