The Gauntlet

I recently took my fifteen-year old daughter to get her restricted driver's license. We arrived fifteen minutes before the official 7:30 opening time. My daughter assured me that arriving this early would insure our hasty completion of the task, since most people come later in the day. Unfortunately by the time we got there, a line approximately sixty feet long extended from the locked door into the parking lot. We decided to remain in the vehicle and wait for opening time. More people began to arrive, so we got out and hastily took our place at the end of the line.

As we settled in to our position in line we were closely scrutinized by the other members of the lugubrious assembly. Having looked at all the strange faces and they at us, and none of us knew each other, we were accepted and became part of the general aggregation. The melancholy collection of souls consisted of a curious cross section of county residents. Included were blacks, Latinos, and whites, all ready to willing to run the gauntlet and jump through all the required bureaucratic hoops in order to secure the sovereign of all government documents, the driver’s license.

Becky (my daughter) had her package of information including birth certificate, social security card, at least two pieces of information showing that she resided in Tennessee, as well as the book she had been studying. She was nervous about the whole affair, and rightly so. This was her forth effort to secure the much coveted learner’s permit. Each previous attempt had been foiled by something overlooked, such as improper birth certificate documents or lack of written proof of whatever needed proving. “But this time,” she guaranteed me, “she was covered.” She had everything needed and had spent a good bit of time studying the driver’s license manual.

My method of preparation for such an occasion as this is to bring a book. I was just a few pages into a Carl Hiaasen novel and figured I would get through several chapters on this occasion.

So there we were, Becky, with her bundle of documentation carried in clammy and fidgety hands and me with my paperback. We stood in line between parked cars, breathed morning air tainted with cigarette smoke, and listened to the sounds of idle prattle from the surrounding throng. My head was buried in the novel as the line mysteriously crept forward in spite of the closed and locked doors ahead. Every few minutes we took a step forward, filling the gap left by the couple in front of us.

There was a loquacious man in line behind us discoursing on the weather, with an emphasis on the amount of precipitation we had recently received. He had a peculiar proclivity for leaning forward and allowing a sizable dollop of saliva (helped along with the earth's gravitational pull) to fall from his mouth. This curious procedure was repeated every few minutes during his conversation and progression through the line. During this time I faithfully read my book and kept a watchful eye on the gentleman in my peripheral vision. As the line slowly moved, the uncouth exhibition behind us continued and was punctuated with an audible “splat” on the pavement with each subsequent repetition. It occurred to me that I should perhaps inform my column colleague that not only was he depleting his body of much needed fluids (especially noteworthy in light of existing high temperatures and humidity), but fouling the sidewalk as well. In the end I decided it was best to ignore the inelegant display and simply try to appreciate Hiaasen’s humor.

Eventually we were rewarded for our sedulous efforts by gaining entrance into the building. A man counting out twenty people at a time finally allowed us into the building and out of the humidity. We were promptly instructed to maintain our line and have our paperwork ready. Fresh cool air greeted us! This was much more agreeable since we, as most fastidious nonsmokers, found the wafting nicotine smoke quite grievous, not to mention the heat and humidity.

Within five minutes we were speaking to one of the ladies behind the counter. My daughter had already filled out the form she had secured from one of her previous visits. But since then, the form had been updated with a newer edition. She was told that she would have to fill out a new one and submit it. It was also then that I learned that as her father, I too was required to fill out a form. We were given our respective paper work and instructed to complete them in the adjoining room.

I was required to have two forms of ID, which listed my current address. “Uh Oh,” I mused. My driver’s license and handgun permit (both legal Tennessee photo Ids) listed my former address. Though I had sent in change-of-address forms for both, the cards in my wallet did not reflect my current address. This was cause for no little consternation on my part. The last thing I wanted to be guilty of was bringing about yet another delay for my daughter’s most prized quest, her learner’s permit. I knew that once obtained, she would be on her cell phone with all her buddies, sharing the good news of her newfound privilege. I immediately thought of going back to retrieve the information sheet I had already turned in and changing the “current address” field to match my two address sources. Then I thought of the possible consequences of prevarication in such a bureaucratic environment. “No, I’ll just face the music with what I have with me,” I told myself. By now my daughter’s and my hands were both clammy with apprehension as we proceeded to the next waiting area.

This time we were allowed the Spartan comfort of government seating while we each dealt with our individual trepidation. I tried to assure myself that I had indeed sent in my address changes. Why then had they not sent me updated cards for my billfold? And what about monetary fines and penalties for such criminal behavior? My daughter seemed to handle her concern with a little more aplomb than her dad. She continued stalwartly leafing through her driver’s handbook, cramming for the coming examination.

Finally, our alpha-numeric number was electronically displayed on the overhead board. A flashing arrow sign pointed us to the next checkpoint.

“Rebecca Edwards?” a rotund woman asked austerely. After a few words with my daughter the woman softened and turned out to be quite friendly and helpful. I took this as a welcome and auspicious sign of hope for our soon-to-be three hour investment. She requested and then carefully examined the contents of the document package and approved them. “So far, so good,” I ruminated.

“Dad, do you have your IDs?”

I smiled and blithely handed over my two forms of identification, hoping there wouldn’t be any questions about mismatched addresses. She duly noted them on her form, initialed it and handed them back to me. I was off the hook! I breathed a sigh of relief and things were better already.

My daughter was handed her test papers and instructed to proceed to the ominous testing room. I was handed her information package and driver’s manual to hold while she took the test. Then I was instructed to return to my seat, which I did with alacrity.

A little while later I looked up to see my daughter’s smiling face standing in yet another line. This was the “I’m finished with my test” line. I joined her and we chatted nervously, both hoping she had aced the test.

In line ahead of us was a teenage

 young lady looking on as her test was graded. My daughter watched in horror as the woman behind the counter brutally slashed through the hapless teenager’s answer sheet with giant red X’s.

“I’m sorry Hon, but you didn’t pass.”

We looked at each other, both entertaining the same excruciatingly painful idea of having to repeat this nightmare. The young lady ahead of us walked away defeated.

“NEXT!”

My daughter boldly stepped forward and surrendered her answer sheet. She observed with dread as the woman once again began ravenously attacking the incorrect  answers with machine-like rapidity. But the ruthless excoriation was curtailed before it went too far.

“You passed,” the woman said with a wan smile. She checked off a few boxes on a form, initialed it, and handed it over to Becky. She was told to proceed to the photo area. We had successfully jumped through the main hoop. But there were more to come.

We were not disappointed in finding a lack of patrons at our next checkpoint waiting line. However, there was no one behind the counter taking pictures. Finally the lady showed up and resumed her unremitting work load. Fortunately, we only waited a short time before two waiting room seats became available.

This was about the time things began to get out of hand. The man who was counting out twenty people at a time was nowhere to be seen. People began filing into the building like a relentless column of fire ants. They had been waiting outside in the humidity and heat for at least an hour and were anxious for the much improved environmental conditions inside. The line took on a life of its own and began to wind its serpentine collection of young and old license seekers around to the photo area. The seemingly endless influx of humanity ultimately began to impede the photo taking process. This did not sit at all well with the orderly and explosive photo lady. She was not pleased to see her turf being invaded by the objectionable intruders. In her raucous vocal manner she let them know unequivocally, they were going to have to leave. About that time the “twenty at a time guy” emerged from somewhere and began loudly protesting the unruly mob’s presence.

The assemblage, on the other hand, seemed immune to the ranting of the two county employees. Ensconced in their newfound and much improved surroundings, the individuals in the outside heat and humidity line made no effort in adhering to the strident commands. The shouting continued. The crowd stood its ground. Finally the gentleman began speaking to individuals at the end of the line and ordered them, point-blank to retreat out the door. One of the encroachers, an impertinent gentleman who sported a T-shirt that touted “Every Woman’s Dream,” unleashed his unsettling invective upon the ranting grouper while the others begrudgingly began their reluctant exodus out the door. A recalcitrant customer ambitiously claimed a position in line that was among the remaining twenty. However, the people in line around him had other ideas and made it blatantly clear he was not. Within minutes the crowd dispersed, leaving the rest of us to ponder the brief skirmish.

Shortly thereafter, my daughter stood before the camera. Her photo was taken and afterwards she returned to her seat. In a few minutes, the machine spat out the restricted driver’s license, which was placed into the hand of one anxious and gleeful teenager. She smiled triumphantly as she examined her new-found prize.

I was happy too because it was time to leave. We made our way through the horde to the entrance. As we opened the front door to make good our escape, we looked into the expectant faces of the outsiders, who forlornly hoped we were there to bid them entrance. When they saw that we were merely exiting, they resumed their mournful vigil and enviously watched our departure.

We had completed the gauntlet successfully! My daughter had received her restricted driver’s license and the three-hour ordeal was history. She climbed behind the wheel of my pickup to drive us home while I considered how long it would be before I would have to return to the driver’s license center. “Perhaps by then we’ll be able to do it online,” I cheerfully envisioned.

Writer's Note: I wrote this almost 20 years ago and found it on my old laptop. Thought I'd share it. Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed a laugh or two.   CE