A little over a week ago, my father tore his ACL. For those of you that don’t know, or are too lazy to research for yourself, an ACL is a ligament in the knee that prevents it from wobbling or giving out. Simply put, my father is in a great deal of pain and has been confined to a sitting/laying position for the past several days. Well, his doctor ordered him to remain as immobile as possible, but like Colonel Custer and the Sioux Indians, my father isn’t one for standing down. Regardless, many of his daily tasks have fallen upon me, and many of these involve driving.
I have been driving for over a year now, that is, driving with a permit. Sure, it might be a bit peculiar that one has had a permit for over a year, when most 16 year old Americans have the 6th month marked down on their Facebook calendars, but that in itself is hardly interesting. Nor is the rebellious side of the same story, as in the empty passenger side. Illegal? Yes. Uncommon? Doubtful. However, despite my self-confidence, I always feared the day when I would become the victim of racial profiling. I mean, according to the ironic principles of karma, it’s bound to happen sooner or later.
Back to my unlawful joyrides, they have become quite frequent in the past several days, and fearing that inevitable karma, my father decided that it was time to stop holding out and take me to get a license. I expressed little excitement one way or the other, seeing as how I would be driving regardless. If anything, I knew I was just setting myself up for defeat, failing the road test and walking out empty handed, down $7 and several hours in waiting. The failing in itself isn’t what troubles me, it’s the walk of shame out those doors past the jail-bait blond with a fresh license in one hand and a cellphone in the other. I can only imagine the text reading: Liek omg!!! i can driv now : )))) I shudder at the thought.
In my driving career I have encountered many a hazard on the road, ranging from heavy rain to women. I use both hands when dealing with the latter. From experience, I can say that the “fresh n’ blond” blend are at the top of the danger scale. If it’s not a cellphone, it’s a Starbucks cappuccino in their hand, or their boyfriend’s stick shift. No, I’m not talking about an actual stick shift, though for the record, they shouldn’t have their hands on one of those while driving, either. It’s when I encounter these wonders of the road that I take a moment to avert my attention to the question: how did they ever pass the written exam? Let’s just say that the actual academic side to high school isn’t their strong suit.
The DMV in itself is a very uninspiring place once you reach the waiting room. Crummy plastic chairs, gray walls, and the current number being served, A113. You are E337. Silent faces stare blankly forward, combating the temptations of rest; brightening after hearing their letter, only to be restored to their former saturnine appearance when they don’t hear the corresponding number. Though few verbally express it, all await the moment a student driver crashes through the northern wall after forgetting to put their car in reverse.
When I’m finally called up, I hand over my paperwork and current permit. After looking it all over, the lady across the desk frowns. “You know that this permit is expired, right?” Yes, yes I did. However, I was hoping to just charm my way past the experience, but seeing as how this lady was approaching her 60’s, I realized that such a plan bore little hope. “You’ll have to retake the written test.”
November 22, 2008. “Sorry, but it looks like you have failed. Why don’t you study next time, cock sucker.”
Who cares about the weight of an infant in a car seat anyway? At this point, I knew that I wasn’t going to get my license that day, but swallowing some anxiety I approached the test taking area, hoping by some stroke of grace I would pass. I think that now is a good point to say that at the DMV, logic is about as abundant as the excitement. Part of the reason I failed the my first written exam was that I’d answer the questions I didn’t know through the due process of reason. After all, it had served me well in school, and I’m at the top of my class, so why wouldn’t it serve me well here? Because this isn’t school, this isn’t the test sheet of life. This is the DMV.
If you park on an uphill slope, you better turn your damn wheels toward the curb. If you forget to use the emergency brake, and your car becomes possessed by gravity, the worst of your issues is a dented hub cap and a new parking spot on the sidewalk. I mean, that’s better than turning it away from the curb, where you’re relying solely on the off chance that friction saves the day; or keeping your wheels straight where the car behind you is your emergency brake. But no, you put the passing traffic at risk by turning your wheels away from the damn curb. Forget that guaranteed stop, let’s not risk running people over in the nearby sidewalk. Well, that is, as long as there is a curb present . If there is no curb, by all means, turn your wheels toward the side of the street and risk running down little Timmy on his way to school! See if we care!
Not only did I not get my license, I lost my permit in the process. I guess it was already expired, so it didn’t change anything, but it was still a low blow to the balls of pride. So I walked out the doors of shame, past the jail-bait blond with a new license in one hand a cell phone in another. Liek OMG!!!! I cn driv now n their is this loser who faled XDDDD
Taking the keys from my dad, I proceeded to drive us home regardless. I really stuck it to them.
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