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.