Fuck the DMV of Connecticut and New York

On Sept. 15 1999, I went to the wonderful Department of Motor Vehicles in lower Manhattan, right near City Hall. I provided 9 points of identification, took the learner's permit test and passed. I got every question right, and my journey towards legal driving began.

After that day, my father took me driving in parts of New Jersey and Long Island. We did this together for about two years, until car rentals became unafordable. I wasn't bad, I thought, and I figured by the time I was 18 I would have a proper New York State Driver's License.

Well, during college, I lost interest in driving. The only times I was allowed to drive was when Drew would let me steal his car (driving illegally) to drive to the store, or when Jess would let me park her car in the Big Haus parking lot.

In my senior year of college, specifically on Sept. 14, 2004, my learner's permit expired. I was no longer legally allowed to drive with a licensed driver over the age of 21 in that state anymore. But I did anyway. I drove the Performing Arts Center van, and in one driving incident I almost killed Dr. John, Charlie Musslewhite and Shameka Copeland - performers that I was assigned to drive from their hotel in Stamford back to the PAC at Purchase.

In Dec. of 2004, Nora drove me to the Department of Motor Vehicles in Peekskill to see if I could re-new my permit, so that I could later take a driver's test and get a license. No, they said, as I did not have a social security card. I was sent away and charged with getting a new social security card, so that I could prove my existence...with a small piece of paper.

In July of 2005 I went to the Department of Motor Vehicles in lower Manhattan, the same one where I had got my permit nearly six years former. To my dissapointment, the DMV there had been moved since my last visit, and I had to tredge to a location near battery park. I stood in line, almost one half hour, and took all my existence-showing paperwork to the clerk. I still had not obtained a social security card, but I had a birth certificate (as well as my passport and NY state identification card-issued to me by the DMV), which would surely prove my existence. No. It fucking didn't. I was turned away.

A few weeks later, I went to get a new social security card, because, apparently, I can't exist in this country without one.

I took the fucking F train from King's Highway to Avenue X and went to the social security office. There I was informed that a "social security card super-center" had been established, and I would have to go there. I took the F to Bergen Street and walked, in the rain, to some shitty office building on Fulton Street where the "super-center" was located.

I waited in line for more than and hour, and waited another three weeks for the fucking piece of paper to come in the mail. Ok, so now can I get my license?

Sept. 29 2005, Chris and I leave work at 3 p.m. so we can drive to Waterbury, CT so I can take my road test. Waterbury is also a hell-hole. When I got out of the car there, some hick was taking potshots with a rifle in the hills behind the DMV. So we go inside. I take all my paperwork to the counter, where I was informed that Chris' Proof of Insurance was expired. FUck. Fuck. Fuck. We were turned away. (BUT! I passed the written test!)

Today, Oct. 21, 2004, by a miracle my test was re-scheduled for this morning at 8 a.m., again in Waterbury. I wake up at 6 and we left by 6:30. We got to the DMV by 7:15 and waited outside in the cold (I don't know why we didn't just sit in the car) for the DMV hellhole to open.

All the paperwork goes through, thank fucking god.

I lead the officer out to Chris' 1998 Suburu Outback, and he immediately marks me down because the windshield and one of the rear-view mirrors was cracked. "The car you take the test in is your responsibility," he tells me. Officer fucking pocket-protector, demoted to DMV-duty asshole.

He tells me to drive out of the parking lot, and take a left. I do. hands 10 and 2, seatbelt over my whole torso, eyes ahead, mirrors adjusted. We drive and drive, and ten minutes seems like a fucking hour. At one point, he tells me to get in the right lane, to which I almost collide with another car. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The whole test was silent. With other cars wildly disobeying the law around me. I wanted to make small talk with him, but he was staunch, and his metal clipboard was rubbing against his wool State Trooper pants. His eyes were green and full of eager law-abiding driving. I hated him.

We arrive back at the DMV, into the parking lot. I backed in between the two white lines perfectly, to which he said, "You have to take this test again, you failed the driving test. You can reschedule in one month."

He opened his metal clipboard and showed me, in a poorly illustrated, hand-drawn diagram, exactly where I had fucked up. I said, "You spelt my name wrong on the form." Hoping I would get to re-take the test.

He handed me the name-corrected form and re-iterated that I could take the test again in one month and he left the Suburu. I screamed "fuck" at the top of my lungs.

Someday, god will smile upon me and let my 22-year-old ass get a fucking driver's license. A six year odyssey, so far.