-Jebby
"Baby, you can Drive my Car"
Subtitle: The reflections of a Michigander lost in the world of the deep South
Second Subtitle: Even you too can become a Red Neck!
Third Subtitle: So, why do Michigan natives hate Ohio so much, anyhow?
Second Subtitle: Even you too can become a Red Neck!
Third Subtitle: So, why do Michigan natives hate Ohio so much, anyhow?
The alarm woke James up at 6:30. In most cases, he would slap the snooze button on top of the small radio unit once or twice and get up for work. But, this was a weekend, and he drank more than usual the night before. The country station was purposely set to make him get up and move. Today, it would only send waves of nausea through his system. He threw the pillow over his head and knocked the radio off the metal night stand it faithfully sat upon. The radio gracefully went through the air and hit the Beatles poster on the wall. James would sleep some more hours for sure.
Having to work conditioned James to get up early in the morning, no matter how hung over he was. Usually, three or four hours would satisfy his need for the day. Even if he felt like shit. By the time 8:00am rolled around James could not force himself to sleep anymore. And his head felt like a freight train about to explode.
A few hits of a bowl and a long hot shower later, he knew that he could face the day.
There was a reason that he took his shower before noon on this weekend. He was about to officially become a hick. Ohio law stated that people with out-of-state drivers license had to take the Ohio drivers test in order to prove their worthiness.
James found this out the tough way.
The Bureau of Motor Vehicles was open late on Wednesday nights. James knew that this would be the only day he could get a new license; he worked half an hour away from the only license bureau he knew of. At the earliest, he arrived back to his apartment at 5:30pm, half an hour before the Simpsons aired on Fox 36. So, since this entailed leaving right on time from work, he knew he would be hassled from his co-workers. Mainly because they were all women, but also because it's just basically impossible to leave on time in an office with only six people working. But he did it. He ran right out of the office with only one woman asking him, "Couldn't you just stay to. . . ?" He didn't catch the rest; the office door started to swing closed by the time he reached the stairs, leaving the sounds of the hens behind him.
Not that he actually worked. Most of the day he stared up at a computer screen. Luckily, the computer specialist had not taken the pre-installed games off the system. Which meant that he was quite good at the two games on the system. Think about it. If you played "Solitaire" for eight hours every day, you'd turn out to be one hell of a card player, too.
The drive from Sylvania to Bowling Green could be nerve-wracking. People from Ohio didn't really have to take drivers test. The responsibility only falls onto out-of-staters. Because of that, people with Ohio plates are scary. Most of the time, they haven't really learned the use of the mirrors in their cars. People coming from entrance ramps just pulled into traffic, causing fender-benders every few miles. Luckily, Ohio citizens think it's their duty to stay in the right lane at all times. All James had to do was get into the passing lane and it was relatively smooth sailing. Once in a while, some over-confident driver would get into the left lane, still traveling 55 mph. James, cruising at 75 mph would get unnerved quickly by this . To make it even worse, tailgating didn't help. Instead of getting the hint and moving back into the right lane, the drivers tended to stomp on their brakes, wondering why they have so many dents in their bumpers.
Ohio people have a strange concept about their roads. They think the highways should be considered the autoban. As soon as a driver is behind some other car, they start to flash their brights. This is to let the front driver know that mirrors reflect light. If not, then the lead car would never know what's around him, and continue going the speed limit in the passing lane. James hated this, because nobody knew when the hell to use this amazingly European driving courtesy.
The drive down the express way was like this day in and day out. But, without fail, he got to his beloved city unscathed. The B.M.V. sat right off I-75 in B.G., right behind the Chi-Chi's. It took up about half of the bottom floor of what used to be a posh racquetball building. With small trees growing in the middle of the building, it was quite a sight. James quickly walked to the center of the first floor, where the entrance was. Looking like a young Yuppie, he quietly stepped into the B.M.V. office and waited for his turn. Only three other people were in front of him, but with the speed of dead snails, the employees chugged on with the customers. In about ten minutes - quite a quick time for Michigan Secretary of State employees, though - James got his time in the spotlight.
"May I help you?" The lady was short. Her blond curly hair drooped down past her shoulders. With a few beers in James system, he might considered her cute. But not right now.
"Yes. I want an Ohio driver's license, please." He reached into his slacks to his wallet. Somewhere inside was his Michigan's license.
The lady looked at the piece of identification. "You mean you didn't take the test?"
"What?"
"You know. You've gotta take the test if you're from out of state," she informed him. "We got to make sure you can drive you know."
Yea, right.
"But wait," he protested. "What about the good faith clause?"
The employee looked at James questioningly. "The what?"
Just as James figured. Ohio is like Florida, only in Ohio the citizens don't have to tattoo swastika on their foreheads. According to most states, licenses and plates are just as acceptable as that state's licenses and plates. But not in Ohio. If a cop wanted to, he could pull over Michigan and Pennsylvania drivers for not having plates on the front side of their cars. Even though it's perfectly legal in their home states. No matter. You're pulled over and your car is strip-searched for any illegal contraband.
"Okay," he replied. "Then I'll just register my new car."
He had just bought a new car. A '95 Escort LX with lots of fixins. Quite a car, for sure, and James knew that he only had 30 days to register it for new plates. Running back out to the car, he searched its glove box for any hint of it being a new car. A small, green piece of paper caught his eye; a temporary tag registration. That'll do, he decided.
He ran back to the office, with only ten minutes before close, getting to the desk without any problems. Smiling, he proudly showed his slip of paper to the employee.
"This should show that I need plates," he stated.
She looked at the paper and then back up. "Oh yea, but you need registration , not temp. papers. In order to have plates, we need to know that the car is registered and not just temporarily plated."
What?! Whatever. With the taste of defeat, James goes to his car to wait until the weekend for the test.
Saturday morning rolled around on bald tires..
The warm shower helped out somewhat. His head felt clearer, but he still knew he would not be standing for very long. With a towel wrapped around his waste and a ferret snapping at his ankles, he trudged out to the living room. Both his roommates were out of town, so he did not feel all that bad about walking about his apartment nearly naked. Plus, it was before 8:30, and nobody would be outside in a college town; everyone felt somewhat like James today. Only they did not have the same ability to fight hangovers.
The pot filled his lungs and started to give him the ever-hated choking felling. One hand instantly covered his lips. Smoke poured from his nose and mouth. Half a bowl later, and he did not feel anything. A bottle of orange juice would be the perfect cure for his throat, and that was on the way to the testing center.
The testing building was right down the street from where James lived. So, deciding to keep his prime parking spot for his car, he walked to the building. This could have been a dangerous affair; young people and foreigners need a driving test before the written test. And they drive down the alley where James was walking. In fact, as he headed towards the office, a girl of fifteen cautiously passed him. Half of her car was off the road, and the officer watching her drive was blue in the face from the lack of oxygen. Nonetheless, James made it to the office alive, leaving the girl to drive in reverse through the parking lot.
Inside, several people were jabbering in Japanese. Not the thing to be listening to with a hangover. James head started to spin due to the speed of the language. He quickly headed to the other side of the office, where the examination table sat.
A large lady was standing behind it, with an evil expression on her face. It looked as if she enjoyed watching people drive into light poles with there cars, crying and asking why she did not tell them to stop.
She spoke. "Yea. Whadda need?"
James reached into his jeans to his wallet. He gave the usual spiel about being a native of Michigan and needing an Ohio license.
The lady looked at him like he was nuts. Or high? Great. "Not now," James thought to himself. Just stay in control for ten more minutes and thinks will go smooth.
His heart started to pound, though. The lady just kept on staring at him. Then to his ID, and back to him. She looked too closely at him. He wasn't even carded this hard when he was 19 and using his oldest brother's ID for beer. His hands started to sweat and his heart stared to pound some more. Someone had to say something soon. Did he have to answer something? God, what was going on?!?
Finally she spoke again. "Fine. You need an eye exam. Take off your glasses. Tell me what you see and which side the light flashes in."
James was quite blind without his glasses. He knew that this would be entertaining; watching the lady enlarge the eye chart until he could barely see any number. It took well over a minute before she found out just how bad his eye sight was and decided that his license would be taken with his glasses on.
She spoke a third time. "Do both sides of the test with a pencil. If you have any questions, too bad."
She sounded strangely robotic during the entire episode. Her movements were likewise, grabbing at a predetermined stack of paper and another all-too-familiar stack of pencils.
As James laughed through the test, another young lady came in to take it. Her mother was right behind her, massaging her shoulders. She kept on giving her words of encouragement, like, "Don't worry, your sister had to take it four times, too," or, "now, you've been driving for three extra weeks, so you should know more about driving."
Great. Ohio lets people who fail the test not only more chances to take it, but also the ability to drive. Unbelievable. An entire family of poor drivers, too. The genetic pool in Ohio is low, and that should be enough proof for anyone who thinks otherwise.
Confidently, with the joke behind him, James strutted to the front counter. Setting both papers down, he looked up at the employee. She just stared back. "You've got to give it to her."
James followed her finger to the left side of the table, when an even larger lady was standing.
He quietly cleared his throat to give the expected reply.
"Oh."
Two smooth steps and he put the papers into her hands. He knew he had passed, but he still had to hear the age-old spiel about the right and wrong answers. What's the sense of taking a test if they're just going to give you the answers? Oh well. He needed the proof that he took it anyhow.
Then, she grabbed his Michigan license. "You won't be needing that."
"Hey," he exclaimed, his hand moving too slowly to grab on to any edge of the license to stop it. In fact by the time he even had his hand up to the table top, she had the license squarely seated on a stack of other out-of-state licenses. "What did you do that for?"
"Oh," she replied nonchalantly, "We just send these back to your state so they can cancel it. Just a precaution."
Well, he didn't know anyone to sell it to anyway.
The employee then ripped a sheet of paper off from a stack of paper and filled out all his pertinent information: name, age, height, weight, address, sex. The important stuff.
To finish the process she took out a notary stamp and stamped the right half of it. "This is your drivers license," she explained as if he were 10 years old. "Until you get your new license, keep this. You might need it if you get pulled over."
Yea, thanks.
She then explained the "whens" and "wheres" about getting the new picture license. Once again, she talked down to him. God, he thought, are my eyes that blood shot? He tried to smell himself. All he could check was his hands, which of course were going to smell like pot. But was it that strong? Did he give off that big of a hint? What could happen anyhow? He decided just to go with the flow.
Later.
Nine o'clock. Still an hour before "The Tick." It was going to work out. He would jump into the old clunker, which was going to go for $50 to a junk dealer just outside of town and scoot over to the B.M.V. Get a picture ID and zip back for his second-favorite cartoon, right behind "The Simpsons." And maybe "Scooby Doo." But that hadn't been shown since he went to high school. And of course Japanimation, which he couldn't consider cartoons because they were just too cool.
Driving the "Old Clunker" was a test in car diplomacy. First off, the car should have been put to rest about three years ago. And that's being generous. Nothing on the car was original, including the floorboard. That was a sheet of metal riveted on almost ten years ago; and it needed to be replaced. This car came from an age before fuel injection. Which meant as soon as the choke went, most people would have given up on it. But not James' Old Man. He went right ahead and put in a manual choke. "If it worked for my father's car," he said, "it will work for your car." Yea right.
The driver's side door of the old clunker was a perfect example of its condition. The metal was rusted all the way through the car along the bottom. Then, of course, due to the old age, the door was nearly falling off at the hinges. Nothing a little bondo would cure. Of course, James would never be able to use that door again, but safety was a major issue here. If there was one thing he did not want to hear was a traffic reporter ripping on his car during some morning radio show.
"Yea, Dick, the traffic is smooth. Wait! Some idiot just lost his door. What? Yea, you heard me right. His door just fell off and caused a semi-truck to jackknife. Oh the humanity! Why didn't the idiot do something to his door. We now have a major pile up on I-75 due to some orange car losing his door. "
Well, everything was right up to the "orange car." Oxidization does some cruel things to the color red. Even cops mistake it for orange.
But, for fifty bucks, he would no longer have to worry about it. All his Michigan disasters were behind him. A new car. A new computer. Everything was grand. A new start.
After fighting with the choke and the gas and the key and the battery and the coolant, he finally got the car rolling. Fortunately, the car wasn't going anywhere far away, so he wouldn't have to go through the standard ritual of filling the radiator up with water. Cracked blocks have a way of leaking all the coolant out. And that's not good.
But he would no longer have to worry about that. The new car beckoned him even now. "Drive me. Go ahead. Find some desolate strip of road and test me out. You can do it. You should do it. That's what I'm made for."
But, that wasn't on the agenda. The plan was to get the picture. Watch the cartoon. Drink the beer. Smoke the dope. Work on the computer (maybe). he went over this plan as he drove and before he even remembered that he didn't have a car radio, he was there. Time to end your life, James thought.
Now the easy part. Waiting in line. In front of him, some half giant spat dip onto the thick, posh carpet. "He probably sleeps with his sister, " James thought to himself. Old dry dip clung onto his uneven salt n' pepper mustache, which hung down past his lower lip. The half giant wore an old John Deere cap on his head. Of course he did. Every country bumpkin is not complete without one. His blue jean jacket seemed all the worse for wear, and it partially hid a flannel shirt. He seemed all the part for a man named "Jed."
The biggest question in the entire Ohio B. M. V. was, "Do you want to donate any organs?" This question did not go over well with "Jed." Jed looked at the employee, spat on the carpet, and exclaimed, "Hell no!" James almost reminded him that they wait until after you die before they take whatever you specify. Before he spoke though; he noticed that Jed was glaring at the poster that was hung up to advertise organ donations. It had a large picture of an ID, with the donor symbol in the middle of the ID. Atop of the ID, it said, "Do your part. Give organs." And the picture was of a colored lady.
Jed glared at that picture. Hate almost dripped from his pores. The Mason-Dixie line was drawn just below Toledo. He probably had a gun rack in his truck . And a white bed sheet in the glove box. He was probably also a volunteer cop. But that last statement is just speculation.
Anyhow, Jed was now gone and James was up to bat. He he walked forward to give his "paper ID" to the employee, walking on eggshells, trying to avoid the "land mines" laid by Jed. One wrong move and - BOOM !! - the soles of his shoes would be gone forever.
"Just sit down in front of the blue screen and get ready for a picture," said the employee. Once again, the employee sounded like she was talking to a three-year old. God, James hated that.
In Ohio, people over 21 got a regular ID picture. Blue screen and a face-on picture. But, if you were under 21, they decided to make an entirely different ID. A mug shot in front of a red screen. That way, the kids could only use their older sibling's IDs, and not try to deface their own. Smart move, if there ever was one in Ohio.
"Now just look into the camera."
He did. Still baked, he kind of looked through the camera, actually.
"Now smile. . . . . Smile. . ."
He tried to. He really did. But, something was telling his lips to stay still. But the employee didn't care. "Now, I'm not taking your picture until you smile." She was starting to sound like a K-mart associate trying to take baby pictures. "Give me a big smile. You can do it. That's right."
Driver's license should never look good. But they shouldn't deter someone from going out to the bars, either. This was both. And then some. Oh well. Better luck in four more years.
