I’ve never been one who favored dealing with difficult people. Granted, that’s how most people are. But I really really do not favor it. Unfortunately, after my 15th birthday, I had to make a trip to a building filled to the brim with the difficult people—people who make me bite my lip to keep from snapping back. This building is known to every man and woman on earth who ever hopes to drive themselves to see the latest Nicholas Sparks movie, or avoid having their mom drive them and a girl to see said Nicholas Sparks movie.
After putting the trip off for several months, my mom and I decided it was finally time to get ‘er done, because illegally driving around Flower Mound wasn’t suiting my mom’s fancy anymore.
I completed the first 6 required hours of Drivers Ed on-line and compiled what I thought were all of the required forms into a lovely folder with a simple copy of my birth certificate. This was my first mistake.
This excursion was my first encounter with a government building, and the experience was interesting to say the least. Within seconds, I had given the small, stuffy room a once-over, and made the decision that I wanted to leave. I was surrounded by people from all walks of life, which was something different for me, having grown up in the “bubble.” Women with pink hair, several tatted-up men, super sketchy low-lifes, construction workers and even the stereotypical white guy in scrubs sat in the bland lawn chairs in the middle of the room.
My mom and I were immediately thrust into a line leading to a man with an awkward hair cut, one I usually saw on little boys in kindergarten. I believe it was called the “chili bowl.” After waiting for far too long, it was our turn, and the man asked for our paperwork. He looked through it all and told us that we needed my original birth certificate.
This meant I was on my way back home. Those government people were already getting too picky for my liking.
On our second trip to the Lewisville Department of Motor Vehicles, I meant business, and by-God-I-was-leaving-with-my-permit.
I braved the first line once again, only to be pushed into another line to speak with one of the ladies sitting behind a long counter which spanning the length of the room. My dad had instructed me to be as flexible as possible the prior night. I didn’t know then how much I would need his advice.
Once it was my turn, I was face-to-face with a short old lady who strongly resembled the cranky green slug, Roz, from “Monsters Inc.” She took the paperwork from me again, going through it with a fine-tooth comb. I shifted my feet nervously.
The attendant’s nostrils flared as she clutched a piece of paper in each hand. “Your legal name is Jessica Strange, correct?”
“Yes?” I answered.
“You signed Camille. This is a legal document,” she said, placing a lot of emphasis on the word ‘legal’.
I had encountered road block number two. Having been called by my middle name my whole life, I had been unaware of the issue as I was signing. My teachers didn’t seem to mind when I signed Camille Strange on their syllabuses.
She informed me that I was wasting her time. I held my breath—I had signed Camille on every document.
Maybe the white-haired lady experienced a moment of mercy, because she allowed me to sign “Jessica” in the small space above the signature line and move on.
It seemed as if my mom and I had stood there for an hour before I was allowed to take my test.
For the most part, the questions were pretty much common sense except for a couple along the lines of “What is the maximum fine you would pay for your third offense DUI, where you injured one minor, and it’s a rainy Tuesday?”
Thirty questions later I had passed the test and the attendant handed me a piece of paper permitting me to drive with an adult over the age of 21 who has a legal license and is not intoxicated or under the influence of drugs.
Sometime this summer, after my 16th birthday, I will have to venture to the same government office. Needless to say, I’m not looking forward to dealing with people who want you to fail; those who penalize you for not turning your head the right number of degrees to the left when looking for oncoming cars. After one trip, I’ve already grown to hate the DMV, and I know I’m not alone on this one.
