Suspense at the DMV

SHERWOOD KIRALY

The 16-year-old’s driver’s test. Just another day.

This year I’ve seen Katie’s friends behind steering wheels all

over town, each with a parent beside them. Up on Alta Laguna I

exchanged a look with Jim Grossman as his daughter Sarah drove him

by; Jim flashed one of those wide-eyed “yowsa” smiles you display as

you’re about to go over the falls.

Before we went to the DMV, Katie took lessons and Patti Jo and I

rode shotgun with her several times. Katie didn’t like having anyone

driving behind her, which in California means she was uncomfortable

90% of the time.

I paid close attention to her turns. Years ago, taking my own

driver’s test, I cornered in a sweeping arc, pressing the examiner’s

head into the front window. Twice. When he told me I hadn’t passed,

it hurt, so I buckled down and worked, and now, less than four

decades later, I qualify for the good-driver discount.

I didn’t want Katie to suffer that initial setback.

I considered advising her to imagine herself as someone else

during the test. I used to drive with more confidence as others than

I did as myself. When I retook my driver’s test I was Steve McQueen,

which sounds dangerous, but the composite worked: the McQueen

audacity and skill, mixed with my timidity, brought me up to average.

I chose not to advise Katie to be someone else, though. It’s too

tricky if you’re not used to it; you don’t want to become the wrong

person in a pressure situation.

At the DMV we ran into Brittany Clark and her mother Michelle,

neighbors from elementary school days. Michelle and I said, “Here

they are, our little girls all grown up.” Outside, as we waited in

our car, Brittany drove off first, with a friendly looking examiner.

Our examiner came up beside Katie, all business, and told me I could

get out of the vehicle. You know you’re at the mercy of the system

when they say “vehicle.”

Off they went, and I sat outside on a bench and waited. Brittany

came back and parked, got out and walked by, beaming. As she passed

she said she passed.

Katie came back, looking grim as she turned into her space. I

could see the hands of the examiner gesturing. In my head a

‘40s-movie voice echoed, “It’s happening again-genn-genn ... “

Turns out there had been a couple little mistakes. Katie is her

father’s daughter. But as her mother’s daughter, she passed.

Now she and Brittany and the other 16-year-olds are out on the

road, and I say unto you: Drive softly, stranger. And don’t tailgate

any Toyota Camrys; I better not find you in our trunk.