In California, the Blind Lead the Blind

It’s that dreaded time of life again. I haven’t had to take a driving test since before there was dirt, but our good old governator has decided to make it a requirement for older people to embarrass themselves in public venues. That, plus the $50 charge for renewal, probably made our smiling Austrian governor have dreams of sugar plum greenbacks bouncing over rickety wooden country fences with sheep being sheered at one end.

Of course, the first time I signed up for this extracurricular brain twister we had another actor in office, some guy who became famous playing second fiddle to a star-studded monkey in a series of movies named, “Bonzo and Gonzo Join the Navy,” or some such drivel.

Back then computers weren’t just a luxury, they were nonexistent. We stood in long lines for thirty minutes or more before the receptionist reviewed our secret ring decoder from Cap’n Krunchable, our Social Security card and proof we were actually alive. Then it was off to take a picture, “Smile for the camera, please. You don’t want the future arresting officer to see you sad, now do you?” After that comes the Rangoon death march into the written test room. It felt like a sauna inside and we typically lost two to three pounds before finally, with legs akimbo and sweat-drenched outstretched palms, we handed our answers to the all-seeing test purveyor who literally had your next six months worth of Friday night dragging along the miracle mile in his power.

This time, modern amenities have smoothed the process incredibly. There are no long lines to worry about. It takes a mere two or three minutes to see the receptionist. And he hands you a number and says, “Wait for your number to be called.” Of course, we commit that number to memory instantly. G375, it’s as good a number as any. And then we scan the screen above and realize that they have just called G201. But this is better than waiting in line because now there are chairs where one can sit and vegetate for the next forty-five minutes. Strike another victory for modern technology.

“G375, please report to window number 18.”

After paying the required duties, avowing that I never took steroids on a regular basis and promising never to call them the LA Raiders ever again, I was sent to window 20, the picture taking window. This line was quite a bit shorter. I figured I’d be in and out of this one in a few scant minutes. That was until I saw who was having their picture taken.

Now, I have nothing against people with special needs. Quite frankly, I believe there are other categories of people with special needs that far outweigh the current group, particularly, ditzy people, people who stand in the middle of a supermarket aisle for fifteen minutes or more with there shopping cart turned sideways pondering whether they want to buy the two-for-one store brand of bar soap, or the national brand. Obviously, Nuremburg did NOT resolve every eventual crime against humanity.

But it would seem to me that sight would be one of those senses deemed necessary before the issuance of a driver’s license. I’ve just always assumed that if you can’t see two feet in front of your face, there are some activities that just aren’t accessible. Well, I guess I was wrong.

And I want to give this guy an “A” for effort. He was going to do everything by himself, well except for picking up his cane. The lady told him to stand against the screen behind him and face her. And he immediately complied, reaching behind himself with both hands so he could feel for the screen while backing up. In no time he followed her commands, “Stand straight,” “Look this way,” “Smile, or something,” “One, two, three, cheese.” I kinda noticed his confusion with the cheese thing, but other than that, a solid performance.

“Now step forward and sign here.” Ahh, the first hint of a problem. In the rush to have his prize photo taken, he forgot where his cane was. There were a few of us in line who became rather concerned at that point, imaging this guy behind the wheel of a two-ton “extended cane” and trying to figure out how he’s supposed to keep his car going straight, let alone how he’ll manage to turn the thing. Fortunately, a good Samaritan with slightly better eyesight retrieved the implement in question and handed it to him. The crisis had drawn to a close.

“And sign here please.” Apparently, the various steps in this process are more difficult to some than others. The first few minutes were filled with positioning the pen in the correct hand and in the correct direction. This was followed with a few more minutes of the clerk practically grabbing the guy by the nose and directing him to the small electronic box where he was supposed to sign his name. This has since prompted me to add a new rule in my ever increasing list of societal postulates. If you can’t see a one foot by one foot box until your nose is touching it, you shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of anything that’s mobile, especially a car.

I can say this in all sincerity, though. The entire office of the Department of Motor Vehicles, workers and prisoners alike, watched this gentleman as he left and got into his car. I can assure that his car’s make, model, year, and license plate are now among the most copied and photographed in the entire state. I think I even saw a few heartier souls actually trying to write down the VIN number as well, just to be sure.