Getting a driver's license in St. Louis

Now that I had a car, all I needed was some insurance coverage and I'd be ready to roll. Pretty straightforward, right? I'd just mosey on down to the AAA office a few doors down from my place and walk out with an affordable little package 10 minutes later...

'Hi. I'd like an insurance policy for my new car.'

'Uh huh. You got yo' license wit you?'

I pulled out my Greek liscence. If you didn't already know, 21st century Greece issues drivers licenses that are actually 6 fold-out pages. There's a front page, stating in all 79 official EU languages that the document is in fact a driver's license, lest there be any doubt. The next page contains some vital stats, including my father's name and a passport photo stapled into the corner. Then theres a couple pages with pictures of vehicles, an X next to a family sedan and lots

of stamps and signatures. The whole thing is pastel-pink and looks like a cross between a desert menu and a cheap Russian wedding invitation.

'Uh huh. You got yo' license wit you?'

'This is my liscence. It's Greek.'

'Uh huh. Hang on.' He turned around and shouted into one of the back offices: 'Hey TAWANDA! I got a guy here wit' a, um, Roman drivah lisence. Do we accept dem?'

Despite his impressive knowledge of the ancient world, it turned out that my friend at AAA couldn't help me get insured until I presented a valid US license. And so, my quest to become a legal driver on the mean streets of St. Louis continued, taking another inevitable turn towards

the ghetto.

This time, my destination was the North Side License Bureau, conveniently located on the North Side, the most hotly contested turf in St. Louis' raging gang war. I hailed a taxi and told him where I was going. The driver, a forty-something year old black man named Marvin, turned around and looked at me like I told him I ate a double-decker shit sandwich for breakfast. I explained my predicament. He started driving, passing by some kids splashing around in a gushing opened fire hydrant.

'Damn, its HOT! And when it gets hot in this city, niggas go CRAAAZY! I can't even have a goddamn FAN anymoh!' He pointed to a defunct mini-fan secured to his mirror, its power cord dangling on the dashboard. 'Mothafukas at the

cab company took out ma cigarette lighter. Say

they got a goddamn No Smoking Policy. I don't even smoke! Now I ain't even got nowhere to plug in, I feel like ima MELT!'

I sensed that the logical conclusion to Marvin's rant would be to drive the cab off a bridge to alleviate his overheating. I tried to change the subject:

'How long've you driven a cab for?'

'Oh 'bout three years now. I was in the army for 20 years. Stationed in Germany.'

'I used to live there.'

'You ever fuck a German whore?'

'I left when I was 11.'

'You lived in Germany and you ain't ever fucked a German whore? You some kinda fairy? Ain't no straight mothafuka ever lived in Germany who ain't fucked a German whore. Woo WEEEE

did we have fun over there! Go into Frankfurt and fuck 3 BITCHES A NIGHT!'

Evidently, the rumor that Europe is some sort of child-sex haven has made the rounds in St. Louis.

'So you came back and started driving a taxi?'

'Nah I drove a schoolbus for a while, but I, uh, I lost that job.'

What a surprise. We pulled up outside the License Bureau and I paid the fare.

'I sure hope your white ass knows what its doin in this part of town!'

So did I. I entered the building and once again assumed my role as token-white-guy, which by now I was getting pretty good at. I told the receptionist I was here for the written test. She said I could take it whenever I was ready, and handed me a book to study. I sat down and leafed through it. The exam room looked more like a teenage pregnancy consultation clinic than a license bureau. 16 year old girls sat taking their tests while their 30 year old mothers bottle fed the baby at the back of the room. Boys in do-rags twirled their pencils while looking at the ceiling

for their answers.

After a cursory glance through the study guide, I reckoned the test would be pretty easy. I'd been driving for at least 3 years already, and had already passed a driving exam in Greek. How tricky could it be in my native tongue? I collected my exam booklet from the receptionist, sat down and began looking at the multiple choice questions:

'How many hours after an accident do you need to contact the police to file a report?'

A. 1 B. 4 C. 8 D. 24

'What is an acceptable air pressure for tyres (psi) on a passenger car?'

A. 10 B. 20 C. 30 D. 40

'How many blue cars were registered in south-eastern Missouri in 1994?'

A. 530,023 B. 709,144 C. 801,229 D. 1,742,892

And so on. Damn. This was NOT the kind of test I could just breeze through. No wonder Tyrone and DeShawn looked so confused. I looked up at the clock. 2.30PM on a friday afternoon, and the place closed at 4. I had a sinking feeling that I'd have to repeat the whole ordeal the following week. Another wheel-less weekend loomed.

But just when I thought all was lost, one of the little fatherless babies at the back of the room started to cry. The grandmother stood up and brought the wailing infant over to the test-taking mother. It was then that I realised I still had the study guide on my lap along with my other paperwork. With all eyes on the mother loudly scolding her baby, I had full, uninterupted access to all the answers!

As the screetching continued, I ticked the right boxes and I brought my exam up to the receptionist.

'Ok, you got 29/30. Good job. Take this over to officer Dicks. She'll conduct your practical test.'

Before I even had time to chuckle at her name, officer Dicks was towering above me, all 6 ft 6 inches and 300 pounds of her. One of her eyes looked down at me as if to burn a hole through my head, while the other roved, probably looking for testicles to crush.

'Lets go out to your car,' she bellowed, as if to say: 'Hurry up you punk, its friday and that means two for one box-lunch specials down at nasty Louise's dyke shack!'

Once we were buckled up, Ms. Dicks demanded a full display of my dashboard knowledge, prodding every symbol and button conceivable, expecting a full explanation. 'Whats this? Whats that? What happens if you don't defog the rear windows? What if your blinkers dont work?'

'You go get them repaired?' I ventured a guess.

'WRONG!' She screamed, marking a big red X on the practical exam checklist. 'You stick your arm out the window and indicate which direction you're going to turn!'

She rolled down the window and began to demonstrate. Her biceps bulged inside the blue fabric of her uniform. As she bent her elbow veins on her neck and forehead began to protrude.

I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, driving down the seemingly endless Kingshighway Boulevard. Officer Dicks bashed the spedometer and reminded me in her usual friendly tone that the speed limit was 20 mph. I'd read about psycho women cutting off male-gentalia and flinging them out the windows of moving vehicles, but I never thought it would happen to me. Now I was beginning to wonder.

Perhaps thanks to my racing pulse and electrified nerves, I put on a sterling driving display. Parallel parking, reversing around corners - you name it - I pulled it off perfectly. This seemed to annoy Officer Dicks even more.

'Well, I'm gonna pass you this time. You're lucky I let that blinker mistake slide, maybe I'm just in a good mood 'cuz its Friday.' God help the students on Monday was all I could think.

Buying a car in St. Louis

Q: Whats the difference between living in St. Louis, Missouri without a personal motor vehicle and living at the bottom of the ocean without scuba equipment?

A: You're much more likely to get shot, robbed or raped living in St. Louis.

I look back on my 3 months in St. Louis as an endurance test, an exercise in the limits of my boredom tolerance and ability to avoid gunshot wounds. I had the misfortune of finding myself there thanks to an internship with a major international engineering firm, which sounded like a good idea at the time I landed it. My research of the city prior to arrival was skeletal, I just giddily packed my bags and hopped on the next flight over, eager to experience life in the states again after living in Europe for 13 years.

I quickly discovered that St. Louis was the the worst city in which to have this experience. It's is located about as far away from any item of interest as is physically possible on the North American continent. The muddy Mississippi flows by, separating St. Louis from its aptly named neighbour to the east; East St. Louis. Like a child at a family reunion sheepishly steering clear of his crazy cheek-pinching great aunt, the river moves quickly, trying its best to avoid excessive contact with the city. Apart from a soulless core of half empty skyscrapers and a giant steel arch, St. Louis spreads out for about 50 miles to the north, south and west. This dire patchwork of ghetto and cookie-cutter suburbia is sprinkled with creepy stip malls and is stiched together by dilapidated 6-lane highways. This was once a proud, bustling city, but when Chicago became the rail hub for westward expansion in the late 1800's, St. Louis lost its national relevance and its long decline commenced. It now seems to have comfortably settled into a pattern of decay.

I was too busy meeting colleagues and getting briefed on the job for the first few days to notice what a dump I was now living in. But come the weekend, I had ample time to explore. Aside from a couple bums fighting over a 2-dollar bill, the empty streets surrounding my 'downtown' accomodation were entirely devoid of life now that the weekday office workers were off duty. Prospects of finding excitement in outlying areas were equally slim. St. Louis' one and only metro-line linked the airport with downtown via a series of park-and-ride stops in the suburbs. Great. The thrill of being in a new place quickly wore off and I realised that any nuggets of gold in this bleak city would have to be discovered by car.

Part I

Scanning through the local classified ads, my eye was immediately caught by BUFFORD'S DIRT CHEAP AUTO SALES, 5 miles to the north of my place. This sounded like just the place to suit my need for wheels on a $1000 budget. After a 40 minute wait, I hopped on what may have been the city's only bus. A cursory glance at my fellow passengers led me to conclude that I had about twice as many teeth as the rest of them combined. A 500 pound white man lay slumped in the handicapped seat, drooling on the floor. Two young black women at the back said: 'Uh uh' and 'He be workin' it', over and over. Never wanting to miss out on a chance for small-talk, I struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He'd been clean for a few years and now coached a christian-negro-little-league(!) baseball team on which his son Melvin was a star player. His most memorable quote on the subject of substance abuse was 'mmm, that shit felt so good when it hit yo' head!' He was bemused by a cracker like me on a bus in St. Louis. I explained that I was hunting for a car so I wouldn't have to make such journeys in the future.

Outside, the highrises abruptly gave way to a landscape of alternating decrepit single-story houses and empty lots on which houses used to stand. These had long since been destroyed by authorities wanting one less place from which crack could be sold. I now found myself in Baden, North St. Louis' version of hell on earth. I have a feeling the neighbourhood is aware of its plight and one day, when no one is watching, will drown itself in the Mississippi. Next to one bus stop, a man lay half on the street and half on the sidewalk, face down. The scene didnt improve when I got off the bus. A trio of gangbangers dressed all in green walked by and commented on 'that white piece of shit'. I checked the address I was looking for and made my way down the street, passing a stripmall in which the only open business was a drug testing clinic.

After 5 of the longest minutes of my life, I reached Bufford's, a crumbling house on a corner with about a dozen suicidal looking cars in the front yard. I entered and found 3 morbidly obese guys watching TV. I told them I was looking for a car for about a grand. They silently stared at me for about 20 seconds, then the fattest and oldest of all (no doubt Bufford himself) reached down into his overall's front pocket and pulled out a couple keys. He flung them at me and said 'check out dem two blue buicks out front'.

Car #1: 1988 Buick Le Sabre, $800

Pros:

-Probably the most stolen car in the midwest.

Cons:

-Slashed Seats.

-Trunk didn't close.

-No windshield wipers.

-No reverse gear. 'Its aight,' said Bufford when he finally came out, 'If you got a friend with you he can jus' get out and push you back when you gots ta park.' I guess to cope with life in Baden, he'd developed a superhuman sense of optimism.

Car #2: 1993 Buick Riviera, $750

Pros:

-Blue

Cons:

-Amongst others that could fill a small booklet, the lights didnt work. Bufford's advice: 'Well you jus' shouldn't drive dis one at night, dats all.'

I thanked Bufford and told him I had to be on my way. He gave me his card and told me to call him up if I needed any more info. Yeah, like: 'Hey, Buff, whats the best way to remove blood stains from trunk upholstery?' Sensing that death or serious injury was imminent if I returned to the spot where I got off the bus, I headed down towards the next stop. On the way, I passed another car lot and spotted the only other white guy in a 10-mile radius, putting an outrageously high price tag on a rusty chevy van. These cars were in an even sorrier state than Bufford's, if that's possible.

'You got anything for about $500?' I asked.

'Uh, well hey man I just work here part time, but come back next week and ask my boss, you'll probably get a bargain since you the first guy who ain't a nigger who come by here in years!'

I figured another trip to the 'hood would probably be the last trip I ever took, so I decided to give this one a miss too. I returned to civilisation empty handed but with all my bodily organs intact. Some brief online research soon made it clear that I was now living in officially the most dangerous city in the United States, with 1/40 people finding themselves victims of violent crime each year. Undeterred, I vowed to continue my hunt for wheels the next week.

Part II

I raised my budget to $2000, figuring that anything less than this amount would get me a deathtrap-on-wheels. Looking around online, I found a number for a used car dealer in Arnold, MO, about 30 miles south of the City. I dialled, it rang:

'Hullo?'

'Yeah hi, is this mike? I'm looking for a used car for about two grand.'

'Oh yeah hey listen I'm just tryin to fix up this goddamn mothafukin piece of shit jet ski that I bought at an auction last week but it wont start dammit! Anyways, why are you calling again?'

'Err, I'd like a car for 2K'

'Oh yeah I got one of them - its red. Why don't you tell me where you live I'll come by and show it to you.'

And so begins the story of Car # 3: 1996 Ford Escort Coupe, $2000, and more entertainingly, the story of Mike, the used car dealer. I've encountered some thoroughly grimy people in the past and had been expecting for Mike to be a grimy guy, but even I was shocked by his level of depravity. He pulled up to my place and got out of the car - a shiny red little coupe with no visible scrapes, scratches or bullet holes. 'Take her for a spin,' he said, getting in the passenger seat.

I hopped in and immediately noticed an inappropriate amount of exposed hairy thigh. Mike was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans tailor made for easy access ball-scratching. He was also clutching a jumbo sized Styrofoam soda cup between his filthy fingernails, from which about half of the contents had spilled on his wrinkled t-shirt. I tried to keep conversation to a minimum, thinking it best not to give him reason to open his mouth. Now there's bad breath and then there's this guy's breath. This guy's unique aroma would make Filipino street dogs howl. Thank god it was a hot day and the car didn't have working A/C, so there was no excuse not to have the windows down. But even going 80 mph on the highway, each breath brought tears to my eyes. Luckily, he wasnt a terribly talkative guy. He asked me where I was from and I replied that I'd lived in Greece for a long time. He shrugged.

The car handled alright, the lights, reverse gear and windows all did what they were supposed to do, and I figured the stink would fade after a couple days. I decided to take the car, so we drove down to his 'office' in Arnold to sort out the paperwork. Unsurprisingly, he worked out of a trailer, which he also lived in.

'Can I use your bathroom?' I asked, stepping into the sauna-like caravan.

'Yeah just go round back, and don't piss on any of my stuff.'

I walked around to the back of the trailer, passing a few tyreless cars on blocks and a jet ski that looked like it had been gutted by a pack of ravenous wolves. No wonder the thing didn't start. I did my business and came back in to find him looking at online porn. I cleared my throat rather loudly.

'Oh hey man. You took me by surprise. So uh, you're from Greece right?'

'I lived there for a while, yeah.'

'How old you gotta be to have sex over there?'

I scratched my head. '15 or 16, i'm not really sure?'

'Well lets look it up.'

He typed in www.howoldyougottabe.com and waited for the page to load.

'Mothafukers, they're always taking this one down. This one should work though,' he said, typing in www.ageofconsent.com. Scrolling down the list of nations and states, he came to G. Sure enough, the age of sexual consent in Greece is 15.

'Cool, that's pretty young' He said, between slurps on his maxi-pop. 'But check out Yemen dude, they know where its at. They don't even got an age!'

'Wow. I learn something new everday. How 'bout that car now? I got $2000 cash on me.' I reached into my pocket and got out the envelope, not wanting to spend any more time discussing child rape with a used car dealer in an oversized tin can oven.

'Alright man, I'll just get you your deed.' He rifled through a stack of stained, crumpled papers on his desk. 'Shame you're not a chick, we could have did some 'creative financing' in my other office!' Pointing to his bedroom, he winked and grabbed his crotch. Mike's trailer was starting to make Bufford's Dirt Cheap Auto Sales look like Buffingham Palace. I shuddered and signed the deed.

'Now if you live in St. Louis, you better park your car under a bright light. Them negroids steal tyres like flies steal shit.' I couldn't blame the whites and blacks in the city for not associating with each other. Both groups were best avoided.

I said my farewells and pulled out of the yard in my newly purchased car. As I started to drive off, he came up to my window. 'Dude, if you wanna see some young poontang, theres a big ass pool a couple miles down on I-55. I drive by there everyday and I'm all like: is she legal?' I hit the gas, excited to have my own means of transport but mainly relieved to have escaped the grime den with minimal mental scarring.