The DMV, Terminator style
Here’s some advice for those planning to move to a new state: Get a copy of your birth certificate. I’m not talking about a Xerox copy, either. No one will accept that shit. What I mean is a signed, dated, and certified duplicate from a county recorder. Get one before you move, too. It’ll come in handy when you want a new driver’s license.
This morning I had an appointment at the DMV. I waited a week for a copy of my birth certificate before making an appointment (yes, an appointment). Like I said in a previous post, I was supposed to get a California permit ten days after taking a job. Oops. I’ve held out for over a month.
They do things a little different than the DOT in Iowa. The DMV offices here are so flooded they recommend making an appointment online. Otherwise you might find yourself waiting all day.
Anyway, it was like any DMV office. I took a ticket, sat, and waited for my turn. I was customer F005. A sexy, automated voice called my number and directed me to window thirteen. I handed the man my application, birth certificate, and Iowa license. On the wall behind him was a framed portrait of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I thought, “Why do they have a picture of the Terminator?” Schwarzenegger, dressed in a gray suit, had no hint of a smile or gin on his face, and his chiseled jaw was locked in place. He looked dead serious, as if about to ask, “Sarah Connor?” At first I laughed, thinking it was an inside, office joke. Then I remembered: He’s my governor.
After my information was entered I signed an electronic pad, had my right thumb print scanned, and posed for a picture. It was the first time I’ve had a finger print taken. I guess I need to get arrested more.
In my head I kept saying, “Maybe I won’t have to take a test.” As the process continued I grew more and more confident I wouldn’t have to take a rules and regulations exam. But, to my chagrin, the man behind the counter pulled out a long sheet of questions. I walked with my shoulders and head down to the testing area, dejected.
According to my parents — who think California hasn’t changed since they left Los Angeles in 1982 — I could take the written test over and over until I passed, or until the office closed for the day. I could fail thirty times and they’d still give me a blank exam to try again. Not quite, padres. That’s the way it used to be. I had three chances to pass, and was only allowed to miss six or less.
The driving laws are similar to those in Iowa, but with a few twists. For example, at an intersection the bike lane can be used as a turning lane. And U-turns are legal in California (Iowa really needs to get the ball rolling on that). The blood-alcohol limit is the same, though.
Even though I knew all the basics I was still nervous. Most of the questions were simple, but a few were tough to reason through. Where do you stop at an intersection with no limit lines on the pavement? What do you do when an old man with a white cane steps to cross the street but then steps back? What’s the speed limit approaching a rail road crossing with no warning devices and less than 400 feet of visibility in each direction? Yeah. See what I mean? When I didn’t know an answer for sure, and didn’t feel comfortable with any of the options, I did what any college graduate would do: I guessed. At the front counter I watched the DMV worker mark the questions I missed with a red Sharpie. I crossed my fingers. He reached the end and only five were marked wrong.
I was done. So I got my license, right? Wrong. Instead of having my fancy, new California driving permit made before my eyes in the office, I received a piece of paper to serve as my temporary license. My real, picture ID will be made in Sacramento and I’ll receive it in two or three weeks. What? I’m used to having a fresh, hot sliver of plastic with my picture and vital information roll out of a machine within minutes. On top of that a hole was punched through my Iowa license, voiding it. Now I’m wondering how I’ll buy booze for the next couple weeks.
I walked out of the DMV with a smile on my face. It’s now officially official, beyond a doubt: I’m a Californian. And I’m also registered to vote.
This morning I had an appointment at the DMV. I waited a week for a copy of my birth certificate before making an appointment (yes, an appointment). Like I said in a previous post, I was supposed to get a California permit ten days after taking a job. Oops. I’ve held out for over a month.
They do things a little different than the DOT in Iowa. The DMV offices here are so flooded they recommend making an appointment online. Otherwise you might find yourself waiting all day.
Anyway, it was like any DMV office. I took a ticket, sat, and waited for my turn. I was customer F005. A sexy, automated voice called my number and directed me to window thirteen. I handed the man my application, birth certificate, and Iowa license. On the wall behind him was a framed portrait of Arnold Schwarzenegger. I thought, “Why do they have a picture of the Terminator?” Schwarzenegger, dressed in a gray suit, had no hint of a smile or gin on his face, and his chiseled jaw was locked in place. He looked dead serious, as if about to ask, “Sarah Connor?” At first I laughed, thinking it was an inside, office joke. Then I remembered: He’s my governor.
After my information was entered I signed an electronic pad, had my right thumb print scanned, and posed for a picture. It was the first time I’ve had a finger print taken. I guess I need to get arrested more.
In my head I kept saying, “Maybe I won’t have to take a test.” As the process continued I grew more and more confident I wouldn’t have to take a rules and regulations exam. But, to my chagrin, the man behind the counter pulled out a long sheet of questions. I walked with my shoulders and head down to the testing area, dejected.
According to my parents — who think California hasn’t changed since they left Los Angeles in 1982 — I could take the written test over and over until I passed, or until the office closed for the day. I could fail thirty times and they’d still give me a blank exam to try again. Not quite, padres. That’s the way it used to be. I had three chances to pass, and was only allowed to miss six or less.
The driving laws are similar to those in Iowa, but with a few twists. For example, at an intersection the bike lane can be used as a turning lane. And U-turns are legal in California (Iowa really needs to get the ball rolling on that). The blood-alcohol limit is the same, though.
Even though I knew all the basics I was still nervous. Most of the questions were simple, but a few were tough to reason through. Where do you stop at an intersection with no limit lines on the pavement? What do you do when an old man with a white cane steps to cross the street but then steps back? What’s the speed limit approaching a rail road crossing with no warning devices and less than 400 feet of visibility in each direction? Yeah. See what I mean? When I didn’t know an answer for sure, and didn’t feel comfortable with any of the options, I did what any college graduate would do: I guessed. At the front counter I watched the DMV worker mark the questions I missed with a red Sharpie. I crossed my fingers. He reached the end and only five were marked wrong.
I was done. So I got my license, right? Wrong. Instead of having my fancy, new California driving permit made before my eyes in the office, I received a piece of paper to serve as my temporary license. My real, picture ID will be made in Sacramento and I’ll receive it in two or three weeks. What? I’m used to having a fresh, hot sliver of plastic with my picture and vital information roll out of a machine within minutes. On top of that a hole was punched through my Iowa license, voiding it. Now I’m wondering how I’ll buy booze for the next couple weeks.
I walked out of the DMV with a smile on my face. It’s now officially official, beyond a doubt: I’m a Californian. And I’m also registered to vote.
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