The irony of it is, I’m actually an excellent driver. Never got into an accident, never got pulled over for speeding. Never received so much as a parking ticket that wasn’t issued by campus security, and that one was bullshit. (Well excuse me for parking in the faculty lot ten minutes before 6:00 PM. Go ahead, withhold my transcripts, you philistines. See if I care.)
Hell, I even took a defensive driving class once, so that I could drive a state vehicle during summer theater tours. If you haven’t had the pleasure, here’s everything I learned in those three hours: “Every traffic accident is not only preventable, but specifically your fault.” The workbook posed a series of increasingly ridiculous scenarios, then asked, “Was this incident preventable?” As if you’re going to answer, “Nope. Damn, nothing you could do there. It was just their time, poor souls. The road is a harsh mistress.”
Q: Two vehicles approach an intersection. One is veering erratically. When the vehicles reach the intersection, both are crushed the Almighty Hand of God. Was this incident preventable?
A: Yes. The drivers should not have led lives of sin.
So not only had I never hit another car, I had a special certificate in not hitting other cars. It had calligraphy and everything.
However, as I’ve mentioned before, my need for a car evaporated when I moved to New York. At the time, my New Hampshire-issued driver’s license was set to expire in eighteen months. That’s a year and a half window to transfer an out-of-state license — an eternity, even for a champion procrastinator like myself. In all fairness, I think I can be forgiven for putting it off. I mean come on, if the average suburban DMV is a nightmare, then what kind of Byzantine hellscape awaited me in the catacombs of Manhattan?
That wasn’t the real reason, though. Somehow I got it into my head that transferring one’s license meant taking the road test, and that just wasn’t going to happen. Like, at all. I had never sat behind the wheel of a motor vehicle in New York, and was in no hurry to do so. Judging by the traffic patterns I witnessed in those first few months, it’s technically legal here to murder someone by ramming their car and pushing it into the Hudson.
I let the issue slide. And slide. And ultimately, I did the thing that you should never, ever, ever do.
I let the license expire.
If my life were “The Shawshank Redemption,” right now is when Red would say, “I look back on myself the way I was, stupid kid who did that terrible crime. Wish I could talk sense to him. Tell him how things are. But I can’t. That kid’s long gone, this old man is all that’s left, and I have to live with that.”
Not having a license was fine for a few years. I kept the expired one in my wallet for those increasingly rare occasions when bouncers carded me, and though they might have squinted at it with their flashlight, they always let me in. For anything official, I used my passport. But those were my mid-20s, when it seemed perfectly reasonable not to have things like a valid I.D., or health insurance. Eventually common sense started to take over. I couldn’t avoid driving a car forever — eventually I’d need to rent one, if nothing else. Besides, driving (on normal roads, where sane people are) is good for the soul, and I didn’t like the idea of giving it up.
One slow afternoon at work, I decided to take a look at the DMV website. A quick peek. Just to see what I was up against. It was in that moment that I caught my first glimpse of how far away Mount Doom really was.
The vicious truth is that if your license has expired, you have to start from scratch. Any previous experience is wiped clean. You begin the process as if you are gazing upon an automobile for the very first time, emerging from a two hundred year slumber to gape at the wondrous machines of the future. Sitting there in my drab little cubicle, the extent of my error dawned on me with a slow and terrible fire. I would have to take the road test. I would have to take the written test. I would have to take driver’s ed. I would have to get a learner’s permit. A goddamn learner’s permit! Apparently I would also have to do trig homework, go to an Honor Society meeting, and find a date for the Junior Prom. (Theme: “A Time To Remember”)
My heart was taking on water, but it sank once and for all when I read the last tidbit. Had I simply brought my old license to the DMV, they would have given me a new one. No questions asked. No road test required.
UP TO A YEAR AFTER ITS EXPIRATION.
No use crying over spilled milk, right? Even in a case like this, where it’s as if the milk adopted me from an orphanage and taught me everything I know about life, love, and happiness. It was time to suck it up, and deal.
Apply for a learner permit. Pay the application fee and the driver license fee. Pass the vision test and the written test. Receive your permit.
The weather must have gone to the DMV that morning too, because it was complete shit outside. It was a Wednesday. I rolled out of bed and grabbed a hoodie, skipping the shower/shave routine in favor of getting this the hell over with. The Q Train rumbled into Atlantic Center, and I made my way up the escalators past Guitar Center, Victoria’s Secret, and Payless. Whatever hopes I had for a targeted, Navy SEAL-like strike were dashed the moment I opened the DMV door. How could so many people have motor vehicle issues? On a Wednesday? On this Wednesday? I glanced around for a sign that said, “If this is all just a misunderstanding, press button to dispense new license.” There was no button. But there were forms to fill out, and hey, forms are fun.
Eventually they corralled me into a room with other new licensees, to await the written exam. Buzzing fluorescents gave the scene a Kafka-like feeling, while the desks looked as though they had been used on the set of “Welcome Back, Kotter.” After sitting there long enough to wonder if I had gotten in the wrong line and was about to be deported, we received our test booklets and were given instructions. The instructions were basically, “Take this test.”
This was one of the questions:
 |
What does this sign mean?
That is not a joke, may the Furies strike me down if I am lying. Christ, it was even multiple choice.
From there, we were funneled into a line for the vision test, just to make sure no one had managed to pass the written test while also being legally blind. Then came a wholly unexpected wrinkle. A woman pointed to yet another line and said, “Wait there to have your photo taken.”
My brain, which had long since gone into low-power standby, lurched into motion. “Hang on a second, what photo? Why do we need a photo for a learner’s permit? Aren’t learner’s permits just a flimsy little pieces of cardboard? When I had my first learner’s permit — back in, you know, 1991 — I distinctly remember it being a flimsy little piece of cardboard. Unless …”
“This will also be the photo on your final driver’s license,” the woman added as she walked away.
“Shit,” added my brain.
If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s a good idea to have an I.D. picture taken after waiting on cramped lines for two hours without having showered, shaved, or dressed like a grown-up with a job, the answer is no, not really. The result should have landed me on the do-not-fly list, and the fact that I’m still able to travel on commercial airlines makes me worry that the Department of Homeland Security is dangerously understaffed. Go ahead, gawk if you must.
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