I flunked the written test for my Massachusetts driver's license this morning.

This was my second trip to the RMV in Chinatown in as many weeks.  Last week, after a not unreasonable wait, I was told cheerily that I did not have all the required documentation for a conversion — since I had an Indiana license, even though it expired in '08, I would need a certified copy of my Indiana driving record in order to "convert" to a Mass. license.



OK, no biggie.  I expected there'd be a glitch or two  And it's not like I waited in line for three hours and then found out.  I was struck by how happy the clerk was to tell me she would be unable to help me, but you know what?  I was glad to have made someone smile.  It's such a rare thing in these troubled times.

So I came back this time with all the necessary documents and my paperwork in order.  The wait was longer, but I had some reading to do, so I didn't really mind.  When they finally called my number, I greeted the clerk with a moderately friendly, "hi, how are you today?" 

There is a woman at work who is so aggressively friendly a simple hello often feels like one of those subway gropings — not a full-on rape, but like you've just been finger-fucked by an unemployed machinist from Quincy or something.  This woman is always screaming "SMILE!" in your face, as you instinctively recoil.  I mean, like she's given you anything to smile about.  I sometimes wonder: do people like this ever stop and think maybe people aren't smiling around them because... they're around them?

But making eye contact and giving a little non-threatening smile, and saying "hello" in a friendly, but not weird way, seems OK.  I mean, business is business but we can still be human about it, right?  Otherwise, bring on the robots.  They're pleasanter on the whole, and often have more personality than your average RMV clerk. 

I just wanted to start off on the right foot.  But the clerk I got this time around looked like her dog had just died after eating her cat, who had eaten her bird.  I said "hello, how are you?" Nothing.  She didn't look at me or greet me back, and didn't even prompt me to tell her my business.  When I handed her my form, she took out a pink highlighter, dashed off six or seven marks, and slid it back over the counter. 

"Fill these out," she said flatly, still without looking at me, and started humming.  I could hear she was listening to gospel music at a very low volume.

I did as instructed.  But I had left two of the spots blank because I had questions.  When I asked — interrupting what was obviously a very private reverie — she was somewhat less than helpful.  Surprising, I know.  I was shocked, too. 

But we managed to get through it somehow, and she instructed me to stand against the blue screen for my photo.  It turned out pretty hideous, but she did not offer to give me another go as I had seen other clerks doing.  I wasn't going to ask.  It's a drivers license, not the cover of Vogue.

She then typed some more into her computer.  It seemed to be taking her an inordinate amount of time, until I realized she only had one finger on her right hand.  In case you're wondering, it was her middle finger — which is obviously how she got the job at the RMV, where that middle finger is essential.  It's really the ONLY one you need.  And here's your proof. 

I felt a quiver of, not sympathy really — but apprehension, let's call it, when I finally got it.  It didn't look like a birth defect either — and yes, I stared at it unabashedly, since she was being such a bitch — it looked like it had been mangled in an industrial accident.  Which gave me something to fantasize about as I waited.

Good person to have on the front lines is all I can say.

"You gotta take the exam," she finally burped, jotting down a number, and mumbling something about going somewhere I didn't quite get but knew not to ask.  I was pretty sure I could figure it out.

I didn't bother to take the practice exam.  The questions, I assumed, would be random, and it wouldn't do me any good — I'd just be taking it twice.  I had had a look at the manual in preparation for the exam the week before, and had focused most of my efforts on the Rules of the Road, skipping portions of the nearly 150-page document that didn't seem relevant, or that I reasoned would not be covered in depth on the exam. 

Boy was I wrong. 

There are only 25 questions, and you only have to get 18 right.  But all of the ones I missed (except one) had to do with fees and fines, and four of the seven I missed had to do with fees and fines for junior operators.  I gave it my best guess, but penalties and fines are pretty specific. I just tried to find the least reasonable answer and pick that one. 

True , there were also a few questions like "how many fatal accidents involve a pedestrian", with answers like "one in three" or "one in four" but most were about junior operators and drunk driving.

The only question I found 100% relevant for an adult operator not under the influence of alcohol or prescription drugs was "what color is a stop sign?"  Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

So I flunked it.

You know, you walk out of the little exam room and look around the waiting room — and it's like a scene out of Brueghel, and you're thinking to yourself — somehow all of these people managed to pass.  How scary is that?

I went back to the po-faced clerk to ask her what my options were now, but she had moved on.  It was like I didn't even exist.  I stood there with my dick in my hand until I caught sight of the woman in charge — who had time a half an hour earlier to make a ten-minute speech about stealing pens (apparently they go through about one hundred pens a day — some people, she conjectured, take them unconsciously, but others do so willfully) — and who of course refused to acknowledge me as I waved and "yoo-hooed" from three feet away.  

"Excuse me!" I implored.  "I beg your pardon!  I'm so sorry, but I have a question!"

I could see she was struggling to ignore me, so although she was obviously fuming at my breech of protocol and still refused to look at me, I knew I had her.

"Yeah," I shouted over the noise of the place.  "I just flunked my drivers test."

Now everybody was looking at me but her.

"What do I do now?"

"Come back another day," she grumbled.

"Can I get my paperwork back?" I asked her.

"Come back another day," she snapped, turning her back to me.

So I guess it's back to the old drawing board.  Does anyone know any junior operators I can trade some booze and oxy for driver's test-tutoring?