Be careful what you wish for, that’s what I have to say. After a year and a half of begging, pleading, whining, shouting, and being the most obnoxious, snot-nosed, sullen teenager in the annals of American history, my parents gave in and took me over to the Penndot DMV to get my learner’s permit.
Perhaps they’d had enough of me informing them, every two minutes since I turned 16, that I was legally of driving age. It could have been those many times that I walked home from somewhere through pouring rain, sub-zero temperatures, or pitch black night to remind them that if I had been able to drive, such efforts wouldn’t have been necessary.
Whatever I did, it must have done the trick, because on June 28, in 90 degree weather, my father and I were standing in line at the DMV. Let me just clarify something at this point; this was not a line as in, ‘a line to use the public phone’, this was a line as in, ‘a line for the women’s restroom during half-time at the Super Bowl, and only one stall is in working order’. This was the Mother of All Lines. I firmly believe that some of those people are still standing there.
I was standing behind a very big, very sweaty man, and in front of a nervous little guy who kept whining about how he wasn’t ready to be a driver. He was doing a fine job so far, in as much as he was driving to distraction. There was no air conditioner; we grabbed Official Pennsylvania State Driver’s Manuals to fan ourselves with.
Looking over the paperwork, my father realized that we did not have my birth certificate (I guess to prove that I wasn’t a Soviet spy or anything), my social security card, swim club membership card, library card, index card, picture of me and Elvis, proof of citizenship, or proof of purchase. So, my father drove home to fetch the needed pieces of identification, and I kept my place in line.
I was just chilling out, leaning against the wall and trying to remember all the words of Hamlet’s soliloquy (boredom does strange things to one’s mind), when the little idiot behind me decided it would be fun to talk.
“Are you ready?” he asked me. No, I’m standing in this line with my sneakers melting into the floor for fun, is what I should have said, but instead I responded,
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I hope the written test won’t be too hard,” he said.
“You getting your license today?”
“No, just my permit.”
My stomach suddenly dropped into my feet. I looked around at my fellow line-waiters, and saw that they were all studying their manuals.
“There’s a test?!?” I asked in a panic.
“Yeah,” the little guy said, “The Pennsylvania State Signs and Knowledge Exam.”
I had thought that the written test was taken when you went to get your license, so I hadn’t studied anything. In a frenzy, I flew through my manual, trying to cram every bit of driving trivia into my brain.
Inch by inch, the line edged forward. More hot, sweaty, hassled people crammed into the hallway. Someone started humming ‘The Volga Boatmen’, and a little kid began to cry that he wanted ice cream. The whole place became like a bizarre surrealist painting.
I, by this time, had lost connection with my surroundings and fallen into a half-conscious stupor. Suddenly, I felt someone shaking my shoulder. I turned, ready to beat the nervous little guy into a pulp. But instead of seeing his face, it was that of my father, who was handing me the vital forms and saying that it was my turn.
Fearful, I crept into the room, and walked up to the desk. I had heard horror stories from friends of mine, and was afraid that if I wasn’t quick or respectful enough, the Penndot guys would yell and throw me out. Actually, I had thought I would see, ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here’ inscribed above the desks. I handed in all the forms, then, shaking, took the eye test.
In truth, I was expecting a sneering Penndot guy to say, “So, you want your permit, do you? We’ll be happy to give you one, after you write a ten page essay on the importance of safe driving and the adoption of the No Turn On Red sign during the fifties and sixties, HA HA HA!”
But nothing like that happened. Instead, I was shown a computer terminal, the kind where you touch the screen in places to register your answer. What would happen if I got them all wrong? Would a big robot arm come out of the top and choke me? Taking a quivering breath, I started. Fear welled up inside me as each question loaded; was it going to be about something I hadn’t studied? After each one, I kept thinking, Sure, I got that question right, but what about the next one?
The test was 18 questions, and you had to answer 15 correctly to pass. I got 15 right, missed one, and skipped two. I had passed; I was on my way to being a driver. The Penndot guy handed me my temporary permit, and I was walking on air. As we left that hall of eternal misery, my father said,
“So, do you want to drive home?”
Then I realized that I could legally drive. What!?! I have no idea how to drive! I can’t even steer a bumper car!
“No, that’s OK, Dad,” I replied.
“I can give you a driving lesson today. How do you like that; by the end of the day you’ll be behind the wheel.”
For the second time that day, my stomach dropped into my feet. Be careful what you wish for, that’s all I have to say, but now that I’m a competent and licensed driver, I look back on that experience as being a significant ‘rite of passage’ in my life. Either that, or the heat was really getting to me.
