My next step toward gaining certification as a drivers education instructor requires visiting one of the most dreaded places in America – the Department of Motor Vehicles. The DMV resides in a stark building with motivational posters lining the walls of the entrance hallway. As I walk through the corridor I see a photo of a sun setting over a misty forest encouraging me to ACHIEVE! It occurs to me that a forest, or achievement for that matter, is the last thing I’d associate with the DMV.

I enter the waiting area. Looking around for the right counter I think of Charles Bukowski’s poem, “This Is Where They Come for What’s Left of Your Soul.” It’s crowded and you can feel the resignation in the air, among both customers and employees. I find my counter and shuffle into line. At the desk a tired middle-aged woman is assisting a short old guy. Apparently, he has failed his driving test and doesn’t want to wait the required two weeks to retake it. They spar through the following exchange:

Old guy: “Do you know what I drove in the war?”

DMV lady: “Sir, I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

Old Guy: “I drove a goddamn tank!”

DMV lady: “Okay, but you still need to wait ’till the thirteenth of next month.”

Old Guy: “Is this how the DMV treats veterans?”

DMV lady: “Sir, this is a standard rule for everyone.”

I’ll never understand why people choose to behave this way. Maybe getting bad haircuts and showering with other men does something to a fellow over time. I’m tempted to jump in and defend the DMV lady by screaming “INCOMING!!!”

The guy storms off. A few minutes later the DMV lady hands me a written assessment containing a hundred questions. She asks if I’ve studied, telling me that the Instructor exam is really, really hard. Thanks, lady.

I stroll into a harshly lit room filled with old, dirty computers manned by random people who would prefer to be elsewhere. The machines are all occupied and the room is silent. I park myself at a desk and begin. I’m working through the questions when I hear a grunt next to me. The sound builds in frequency and intensity over the next few minutes. I glance around and spot the grunter, a kid with a black baseball cap perched backwards on his head. Suddenly, he lurches out of his chair. His pants hang mid-thigh with boxer shorts poking out the top. He glares at the computer for a second and struts toward the main room in a side-to-side shuffle. Entering the main room, the kid looks at the DMV lady, punches a fist into the air, and yells, “That test was BBBBUULLLshit!”

I finish my exam, hand it in, and proceed to the drive portion. I roll my Volkswagen up to where vehicles are inspected prior to heading out. Hopefully it won’t get rejected for something like a license plate light, which in my case doesn’t work. My evaluator approaches the car and introduces herself. She’s not what I expect. She’s a younger woman, probably in her early thirties, and she greets me with a shy smile. I’m relieved not to be testing with some grizzled DMV veteran whose body language says, “Let’s get this over with so I can do it again with someone else.”

“So how are you doing today?” she asks politely.

“Just fine,” I reply, thinking that I’ll be doing a lot better when we return and nothing has fallen off my car. But my Volkswagen holds together beautifully and I pass the test. The only thing I do wrong is drive too slowly on the highway. When the DMV reviewer tells me that I need to keep up with the legal limit of 60 mph, I nod. No need to tell her that my car starts shaking violently at that speed.

I return to the DMV office and receive the results of my written test. The minimum score required to pass is eighty-five percent. I blow the test away, college style, getting exactly an eighty-five. I’ve passed the DMV portion and am halfway to being certified as a Driver’s Ed instructor!

I call my wife and arrange to pick her up for a dinner celebration. Cruising into downtown Portland, I swing by the front of her building. She’s not outside yet, so I decide to loop around the block to buy time. I turn left at the next intersection and immediately hear honking. On the curb to my right I see a woman waving her arms at me. I try to place her, but I’m certain we’ve never met. I finish my turn and look down the road. When I notice that there’s no yellow centerline to my left and see the blank, silver backside of street signs, I realize that I’m going the wrong way down a one-way street.

I execute a rapid, action-film U-turn. Driving past gawking onlookers I remind myself that I need to be careful from now on. If the DMV had been watching this little maneuver, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance I’d lose my certification.