Part 3: Driver's License

The event couldn’t have been more anticipated or more dreaded. After accruing the requisite number of hours driving the car (or, at times, being driven by the car), I was invited back to the DMV office to complete my certification.

It's worth noting that DMV offices are depressing places. You get the feeling that many of the patrons come to the office to die, not renew their vehicle credential or be cleared for the road. The rules of the DMV are similar to the rules of the men's restroom: Nobody smiles, nobody looks around, nobody asks serious questions. You take care of business and leave. Don't start a conversation and do not, whatever you do, do not flirt with anyone.

It took a few minutes to process my information, during which I made a number of cutting observations like the one above, but eventually an older woman whose haggard face and cocaine wrinkles belied her pasted smile welcomed me to step into “my” vehicle and perform basic automotive functions like initiating a turn signal and pressing the brake. When she was satisfied that I understood these commands she felt safe to enter the car herself. There, strapped into the passenger side seat, her mouth inches from my ear, with both windows sealed and the car turned off she started laughing.

Her laugh was a maniacal as it was loud in the confines of the small hatchback and the closed windows trapped in the sound. Specks of spittle spattered the dashboard and my earlobe felt moistened. I desperately wanted out. Maybe I didn't need a driver's license afterall. Maybe I could just walk and take public transit the way they do in Europe. I could be environmentally and

“What’s the matter?” I asked with natural timidity. The laughing stopped.

“You wanna pass this thing?” Her voice was scratchy, acidic and thin reminding me of a female version of Marlon Brandow. I forced myself to look at my evaluator. Her eyes were dilated and her pupils enlarged, leading me to believe she had just run a line of methadone

“Yes.”

“Then shut up and drive. When I say turn, you turn. Otherwise, follow the rules of the road.”

An eerie silence permeated the car and was only pushed away when I started the engine. My older brother - the one who knew almost as much about driving as he did about women - had warned me that driving tests are like marriages in that the slightest little misstep can make for an unhappy ending. He said to move slowly, ask no questions and show some fear because evaluators like to feel empowered.

I moved through the parking lot in first gear, keeping my eyes pointed straight forward and turning my head in an exaggerated sweep of the oncoming terrain. I followed every detail of the driving manual, accenting my hand motions with finger twirls to show the woman in the passenger seat that I knew what I was doing.

The first few turns were uneventful, almost calming after my initial scare. Maybe the licensing process wasn’t so bad after all.

My brother had warned me against any attractive lull the proctor might design. It was the calm before the storm, the quiet before the smash, the last breath before the death shudder. I was to stay on the alert the whole time and never lose focus.

A bead of sweat dropped from my nose onto the steering wheel and I hoped the licenser didn't notice. Sweat could be interpreted as nervousness or discomfort with driving and nobody wants to have an uncomfortable driver certified for road driving with the full blessing of the state government. Nobody but Ron Paul and this lady wasn't Ron Paul.

“Turn left at the next stop.”

I arrived at the stop easily, and took pride in my ability to navigate the straight, unoccupied road at 35 mph. I stopped right in front of the sign and paused to recapture my focus. I looked to the left and saw no traffic. On the right side, my vision was obstructed by a protruding building, but from what I could see, there were no cars. I pulled ahead. As soon as my line of vision allowed me to see past the building on the right, it seemed a whole town's worth of cars appeared.

“Stop!” My evaluator yanked the parking brake and we screeched to a halt in the middle of the right-hand lane. Cars whizzed passed opposite us and I got a new lesson in finger obscenity from the passing traffic. Fortunately, the right lane stayed clear - or I would have been united with my instructor and a little vehicular steel in violent fashion - until I was able to squeeze into the lane and complete the turn. By the time I was safely driving along the road, my heart was beating like over a hundred and sixty beats per minute, I was sweating like Shaq at halftime and involuntary whimpers were escaping my mouth despite a good faith effort to hold them in.

My evaluator pulled out her clipboard and made some aggressive scribbling notations that were as illegible as they were large. I tried not to look at what she wrote and continued into the DMV parking lot, wiping my nose on the back of my sleeve. There, parked in the expansive government parking lot, she smiled at me with the same evil grin she had deployed at the beginning of the exam.

There, in the confines of the parked car, across from a heavily painted ugly woman, I thought about life and blind turns. I had a series of profound and marketable thoughts about the futility of trying, the sovereignty of God and just driving in general. Unfortunately, I forgot all of them when she opened her mouth to speak.

“Young man?”

“Yes?”

“I'm going to let you pass...”

She said a lot of other stuff. Something about inching forward to check around a building before barreling ahead and some advice about saving my clutch by not riding it, but I was too giddy to listen. I hugged the evaluator with sincere affection and then sprinted out of the car to tell my father.

I've been driving now for a period of several months and I have never gotten closer to being in an accident than when the DMV official was sitting right next to me. You can't fault my timing.