[This column was written about finally getting my Georgia Driver's License]
It feels surreal to even say this, but as of yesterday morning, at least in Georgia, and at least under my current name, I am no longer a scofflaw.
That's right, friends: for the first time in forever Hyperion has a Driver's License.
"The kid's legal now."
[What movie's that from? Ten points for whomever's first]
Being a legal driver is sort of a surreal experience. My entire time in Canada I was sort of "extra-legal," a gray area that no one was entirely sure of. I had a Georgia Driver's License, though, and when it expired at the end of December, 2005, it sort of put me in limbo. Because of my legal status I could not get a Canadian license, so for the most part my driving had to pretty much cease.
Then came the big cross-country trip, and Hyperion HAD to drive. I did so without much anxiety, but with full knowledge that if I got pulled over I'd be screwed.
(Actually, my parents never found out, but I was pulled over up in Canada right toward the end. I talked my way out of it, though, because I'm smooth. What happened was that I had changed pants (because of the snow), and my wallet was in the other pants. So when I was pulled over (for going over the line at an intersection, even though the snow had obliterated the line), I didn't panic. I simply told the officer the truth: how after getting in from the snow earlier in the evening I had taken off my jeans and switched to track pants, and forgotten to switch the wallet. I offered to have him follow us back to the camp and check, which he declined to do. What I DIDN'T mention was that if he had come with me he'd have found a driver's license one year expired. Yeah: I'm smooth.)
Getting the license down here had been frustrating too, for reasons ranging from conflicting advice on what requirements I'd need to prove I live here now, and then my three and a half weeks without walking.
When we finally did go it was my dad who was told he couldn't transfer his Canadian license until he took the written and driving tests. This is a man who lived in Georgia for several years in the '90s, and who has been driving since he was 8. (He lived on a farm.) Furthermore, dad can't prove he lives here either, but the DMV lady told him that "your grandson can vouch for you."
Any of you who have ever met my father can imagine how he took that news. Not only does the man who's been driving illegally for over a year have to vouch that he lives with me, but he's my grandfather.
(And beause I'm such a great son/grandson, I had to bust his balls all the way home. I pointed out what traffic lights meant "Yellow means slow down..." as well as signs, lanes; whatever I could think of.)
As for actually getting my license, it was both hard and ridiculously easy. The hard part stemmed from the fact that Columbus (city of 250,000) has one DMV the size of a house trailer. The first time we went there was a line halfway down the road, and we're already talking a building 10 miles out of town. (Which is stupid if you think about it: if you don't have a license, how are you going to legally get out into the country?)
We finally went an hour early yesterday, only to still find a line. This brought the second big hurdle: I had to stand for over an hour. It was absolutely brutal, and I only made it by a sense of will equal that to Roman 13th Legion back in the Day. I'll probably pay for that forever, but hey: I did it.
Actually getting the license was a joke. They took my word for where I lived: leading me to believe I could have made up any address in the universe. You can see how fraud would be quite easy, were one so inclined.
The only other awkward moment came when the guy asked if I wanted to change any of my personal information. This is how he did it:
"Has any of your personal details changed...height, eye color, glasses...(big pause)...weight?"
Bastard.
There are two other details I simply must share, things that simply could not be made up. One was that while I was standing there waiting to "have my picture made" (as they say it down here), a man walks in a side door with a white jumpsuit on. He walked in like he owned the place, and no one gave him a second glance. The man walked into the back room and did something, and then walked back out with a pack of cigarettes, stopping for a moment to chat with one of the clerks. It was only as he was leaving that that I noticed his jumpsuit said "STATE PRISONER."
Clearly the guy was comfortable and accepted here, which can only lead me to believe that this was a regular gig for him. I guess that's the DMV for you: a state prisoner, no problem, but an honest citizen who happend to live in Canada for awhile: No License for you!
As I was getting ready to leave a woman about 5 foot nothing walked in, so short they couldn't really see her over the counter. She was 75 if she was a day, and she started bellowing about getting her license changed.
The clerks politely tried to calm the woman down, asking about her "ticket," which you only get after you make it through the outer and inner lines to the inner inner line. The woman didn't have a ticket.
When the clerk told the woman she had to stand in line to get a ticket, the woman puffed up like a bantam rooster and yelled, "I'd have to be crazy to stand in a line that long. I just got divorced and I ain't spending one more goddam minute with that man's name on my license. I want my maiden name back so I can get out there and see what's available!"
They put her at the front of the line.
Writing this all up reminds me of the last time I lost my license and drove for over a year without one. I got two great columns out of it, columns you should read now. (I said now!)
Check out #55 Driving Myself Crazy Part 1
and
#56 Driving Myself Crazy Part 2
And I'll see you Monday!
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