Be prepared. Any card carrying Girl Scout knows those two words by heart. And yet….
So today was the day. The day all teenagers look forward to. The universal right of passage for all 16 year olds; the drivers permit. While most of the teens I know couldn’t wait to get that piece of paper that signaled freedom, mine was more hesitant. He had too many other things to think about, he said. He was busy with school and baseball, he said. He’d do it after school got out, he said.
Well, school’s officially out. And so, grabbing a couple of papers that he’d had sitting on his desk for the last six months since competing his driver’s education class, we head out the door hoping to get an early jump on the long lines that would likely greet us at the local department of motor vehicles.
First let me say that if you work for the department of motor vehicles, I am sure you are a perfectly wonderful, kind, caring, and cheerful person. And helpful. Very, very helpful. If you do work for the department of motor vehicles, clearly you were not the person who was seated at the front counter today, the day that we chose to go and belatedly get the driver’s permit for a particular sixteen year old young man, because if it was you that was sitting there, I am sure our experience would have been much, much different.
My children have never been to the department of motor vehicles before. It has been an experience that I have sheltered them from up until now. My youngest son now says that he never wants to go in there again. Driving is overrated, he said. And he might be right.
I have a theory that people that work for the government are trained to work very slowly, as in slower than you or I could work if we tried to work at a speed that resembles the pace of a snail crawling across the sidewalk. In truth, after many years of standing in line at the post office, package in hand, I have had the opportunity to observe the behaviors of many of our government employees and I have decided that it must be in the training. Government employees have to be trained to move their bodies as though they are trying to do their job while sitting deep under water in a swimming pool. Either that, or they are all taking massive doses of Prozac.
Sitting at the counter was a woman who bore an unusual resemblance to a golden retriever.
“Yes?” she said, in a dull monotone, her eyes never meeting my son’s (or mine, for that matter.)
“He’s here to take his permit test,” I notified her in my maternal tone.
“Did you sign up for drivers training?” she mumbled, her eyes fixed on a spot slightly beneath the top of the counter.
“Uh, no, not yet,” my son replied. That, was the wrong answer. Apparently you’re supposed to sign up for drivers training before you get your permit although it seems counter intuitive to me. I mean, how can you take driver’s training if you don’t have your permit yet? But then again, no one said the process would make sense.
“You need to sign up for driver’s training before you take your test,” she replied with a sudden burst of vocabulary delivered in her Prozac induced state. “Bring back the form that shows you’ve registered.”
Huh?
“Excuse me,” I said, trying not to sound too aggravated. After waiting 6 months for this moment, I was not willing to give up so easily. ”Could you please tell us exactly what we need to bring in order for him to take the test?”
“Just bring proof that he’s registered to take the training,” Prozac woman replied. “And the forms, of course.”
Of course.
“And that’s it?” I checked again.
She nodded, slowly.
Thirty minutes later we were back, registered for drivers training, papers in hand.
“He’s here to take his drivers permit test,” I announced once again.
Prozac woman looked up, briefly. “Do you have your birth certificate?”
You have got to be kidding me. Of course not.
“Here,” he said, thirty minutes later, plopping the papers down on the counter. After never having visited this institution before, we had now entered the building for the third time in two hours.
The third time was a charm. She handed my son a ticket. He was now G053. We made our way to the hard plastic chairs and waited for our number to be called. We watched as a steady stream of people of all shapes and sizes marched in those same doors that we had come through no less than 3 times already that morning. A handsome thirty something man in a blue kilt caught my eye. I watched as the folds of his kilt swooshed while he walked back and forth in front of where we were seated. I watched as Prozac woman interacted with the long line of “customers”. Eye contact was not her strong suit. Nor was smiling. She smiled once, briefly, but then her face quickly returned to its resting state when she caught herself and realized she must have been in violation of the department code of conduct. Section 3, paragraph 4. No smiling.
45 minutes later it was our turn to order. A recorded voice called out to anyone who would listen, “Now serving G053 at window number 13.” Now we’re cooking with gas.
“Do you have his social security number?” asked window number 13.
This was getting to be ridiculous. Did we miss the memo? Was there a checklist somewhere that every one else got to see but us?
I spent my entire childhood in the Girl Scouts. I crossed the bridge, memorized the promise, did my good deeds and wore my trefoil proud. I hiked, camped and backpacked in the wilderness. I cooked entire dinners in one pot, lit a campfire with one match, cleaned latrines with a toothbrush. I know what it means to be prepared. But this time I dropped the ball. This time, I didn't go over the pre-camp checklist. This time I relied on a 16 year old to make sure that everything was in order. Big mistake.
4 hours later we pushed open the swinging doors and walked out into the warmth of the afternoon sun. The morning was gone as well as a half a tank of gas and my patience along with it. Today was not going to be our day.
I can hardly wait to do it all again next week.