Drive

One of the things I love about California is that there are always flowers blooming. Back home, we don't see cherry blossoms until May, but these were trimming the parking lot of the San Jose DMV office yesterday:

I studied The California Drivers Handbook as I rode the #82 bus to the DMV. Irony appreciated, Gentle Reader. The handbook sounds like it was written by Arnold Schwartzenegger, in terms of both style and theme. To wit:

"The maximum speed limit on most California highways is 65 mph. You may drive 70 mph where posted. Unless otherwise posted, the maximum speed limit is 55 mph."

and,

"THINGS YOU MUST NOT DO:
Do not shoot firearms on a highway or at traffic signs."

and, my favourite,

"Prevent a potentially violent incident by avoiding eye contact with an angry driver."

A short form to fill out, one very bad photo, and $27 dollars later, and I had a temporary driver's license. And then I had to write a test.

I learned to drive when I was 12 years old, and until I moved to California I'd had my own car since I was 16. It's killing me, not having a car here. I feel like I'm missing a limb. I've been driving legally for more than 20 years, and have had only one accident, which happened the same month I got my license. And now I have to take a test, and I feel like I'm 12 again.

Nothing to be done about it. You can't argue with the Governator.

The written test consisted of 36 multiple choice questions. A woman wearing a uniform and a shiny badge, and having a very bad hair day, asked, "You write test?"

"Yes," I replied.

She ordered me to turn off my cell phone, then handed me the paper and shoved me into a cubicle.

Ten minutes later I was standing in line with a herd of teenagers accompanied by their parents, waiting to have my test graded, and feeling like peeing my pants. Another woman with equally bad hair and command of the English language took my paper, and laid it side-by-side with the answer sheet. She ran her pencil down the column, then turned the page over and did the same. Then she did both the front and the back again. She looked puzzled. I wanted to cry.

"You got them all right," she said, finally, in exactly the same tone of voice your grade six teacher used when she suspected you had cheated on the midterm.

I didn't mind being treated like a criminal. I've gotten used to it, what with being an alien and all. Besides, who cares? I passed, and that means I'm about to become of legal age in this state. Finally, I'll be able to buy beer at the 7/11!

But Creepella wasn't finished with me yet. She got out of her chair, took my paper, and went to consult with a man behind the counter. Then she returned and smiled evilly. "You have to take drive test."

"I do?"

"Yes. Because you Canadian."

"But I don't have a car!"

"You have to take drive test," she repeated, which I understood was code for, "Not my problem, let's see you cheat on that one." She pointed across the room to Window 27, above which hung a sign reading, DRIVING TEST APPOINTMENTS, but instead of walking to the window, I went outside and sat under the cherry tree, where I lit a cigarette, and called Jack.

Next, the continuation of happy hour at the Poor House Bistro with Kapp the librarian. Two years ago today, Postmodern Sass learned a valuable lesson about folding. Click here to read about what happened when Sass went for her driving test.