drive

a 1970 chevy impala four door hardtop sedan with a v-8 engine is 18 feet of unbridled automotive fury. it is also just over six and a half feet wide. and in may of 1985 my own dear parents handed me the keys to more than 3,500 pounds of detroit steel and said happy birthday. i am telling you this so you will know that i know what i am doing. that i have known for a very long time.

however, knowing what i am doing and having a license to do it are two different things. let me tell you now you shouldn't ever let a driver's license lapse. ever.  because without one it is difficult to get a credit card. buy a house. register a rowboat with the d.e.c. fly on a plane. it is very, very difficult to convince people you are who you say you are if you have no evidence other than the word of your parents who may or may not be of questionable integrity. so when my license lapsed without warning me about what would happen i decided i was not about to stand in a million person line and take that whole driving test over again just to prove to the state i know how to do something i'm not even planning to do so they can give me a license to do it. using the man and the man's desire to keep me jumping through hoops as an excuse to avoid doing something isn't such a good idea, either. but i got myself a fancy state i.d. non-driving. for walking around and buying bourbon and it suited me fine. for a while.

but recently i've become restless as a passenger and the sweetie has been encouraging me to visit the d.m.v. to get myself legalized. so i go every time i have a day off. rosh hashanah. winter break. spring break. summer. i go to the d.m.v. at atlantic center, downloaded license application already filled out and clutched in my sweaty hands. i get in line. and no matter what time of day i go, even thirty minutes before the place opens, there are hundreds of folks already in line. and i know what you're thinking. you've seen me exaggerate before. i am not exaggerating now. i believe that before lunchtime the d.m.v. in brooklyn processes more people than the total population of my entire missouri hometown, including stringtown and oscie ora acres. before noon. so i go and i stand in line until i can't breathe, until i've forgotten my name or until the screaming of miserable children cuts through the backs of my eyes or the anger between others somewhere further up the line threatens to boil over into spitting or purse throwing. and then i trudge back home, determined to go again the next day. depending on the length of the school break, maybe even the day after that.

but because we went wild and bought ourselves a new car in the ancestral homeland a week or so ago we had to do some licensing paperwork and the sweetie was willing to take a day off and do the work upstate, where the d.m.v. is a little quieter. because unlike me, he isn't even willing to attempt to stand in one of those lines. we go to the margaretville d.m.v. together. i cannot keep the terms standing, stopping and parking straight in my head, although i know i will never put my car in front of a sign that says any of those things, just to be safe. i feel clammy. it is a long time since i've taken a test and i think it may be the first time i've ever been nervous about how i'll do. yes, i was that sort of child. we are third and fourth in line, the sweetie and me. the first man is there to license a small farm vehicle because he was yelled at by a policeman. the d.m.v. lady says there's no way to license the vehicle but the man says the cop insisted it had to be licensed. kafka. dickens. dizziness. the man, who has already apologized to us for taking up so much time, finally decides this conversation will not change and goes home. this does not bode well for my own efforts.

the next transaction is quick and then the sweetie gets started with his paperwork and i am at the counter. i have my expired walking around i.d. from the state of new york. i have a notarized copy of my birth certificate. i have read and reread the forms of identification required and i know i have what i need but i am nervous. "you need a social security card," says the lady behind the counter. now, if i knew where my social security card was, i'd hand the thing over to her, but i don't. i do know that as soon as i have a valid license, i can get a new one and i will, but that doesn't help much right now. i smile my best smile and take a deep breath and tell her i don't need the card, that i checked the state website and what i have is sufficient. and yes, i did actually say sufficient. watch cops. awkward formal language is a common response to guilt and fear. she looks me over like she can't believe i haven't gone home yet and she clicks around on her keyboard. she looks surprised, then frowns, then takes my i.d. "this is expired," she says. already at 9:15 a.m. i have made her so tired she can barely think. i tell her i know, but that it still sufficient. i know for a fact it will work for three years after the date on it. she clicks around again and mutters three years under her breath and looks at me like i ought to be ashamed of myself. i am too nervous to be ashamed. she shoves the written test across the counter and tells me to have a seat.

there are twenty five questions. i begin to think like a ninth grader with a learning disability. i figure i can probably miss seven of the questions and still have a shot at driving. i answer them slowly and carefully. the fact that, as a high school teacher, i sit through at least one drunk driving seminar per year is very helpful. i reread every question, make sure i've answered them all. i put my name at the top and stand up. when i had the test over the counter the woman asks if i'm sure i'm finished. she is sure i am not. i was pretty sure but her tone is enough to make my insides feel all silvery and cold. she takes the paper, exasperated with me beyond words. but when she turns back to me everything has changed.

she says that in all her time working for the d.m.v. she can only think of maybe one other person who aced the test. i am so rattled by the taking of the test i'm not sure what she's saying but i can tell by her smile i passed.  i mention i took the test once before when i was sixteen and that i've spent about twenty years of my life driving successfully but she is still happy and i can tell you right now i am happy, too. and yes, i am the sort of person who will text my sisters to let them know i got an A+, perfect, minus zero score on my written test. i am, indeed.

she puts me over in front of the camera and i stand there while we wait for the machine to warm up. she takes my picture and tells me when the formal permit will come in the mail. she hands me my temporary permit. she asks me if i want to see my photo to see whether i'm happy with it or whether i want another. now, this is an opportunity pretty much every single person i've ever met dreams of having. the opportunity to retake a driver's license photo. i can hear a choir of angels. i can see beams of golden light. i look at the photo on the screen. it is hideous. i look like a squirrel-cheeked crack addict. i look like a very tired drunk. it is fine, i tell her. and it really is.