By Larry Brook
Idyllwild Resident

“B-110” the announcer calls.

“F-89”

They’re calling out numbers at the Hemet, California Division of Motor Vehicles (DMV). Juanita and I are here to get our California driver’s license and Real ID. To reach the DMV in Hemet, we drove down the twisting, turning mountain road from Idyllwild to Hemet. It took us about an hour.

When your number is called at the California DMV, you rush to your assigned window. Suddenly, my number is called. I rush to my assigned window.

The 20-something agent looks at my paperwork for a few seconds and hands it back. “This is not right,” she says. “Fix your address and come back later.” I choke, “Do you realize it takes me two hours, round-trip to come here?” “Just make the corrections and come back another time.” “But two hours of driving …”

I turn from the window in a daze and return to where Juanita is waiting. I mumble that we made a trip for nothing. We leave the building. Juanita is stoic, Larry is humiliated. I almost turn to go back inside to tell the agent that I have three daughters, all older than she is. But I don’t.

We continue to the car. We drive back up the mountain until we are in sight of Tahquitz Rock. I begin to think it would be easier to climb that rock than to get my California driver’s license.

I spend two weeks correcting our paperwork. Then, once again, we drive down the death-defying road to the DMV in Hemet. Incidentally, Hemet is a town east of Los Angeles, located in the altiplano where the Cahuilla and Soboba Native Americans lived for thousands of years. I mention that now because I am hoping we don’t have to wait a thousand years before we get our driver’s licenses.

We arrive at the DMV on State Street. We check in with the receptionist. She leafs through our papers. One of the documents, signed by the postmaster general of the Idyllwild Post Office, affirms that we live where we say we live. The receptionist tosses it aside and announces, “We can’t use that.” Then she says, “You’re going to need to come back another time with a utility bill addressed to you at your new address.”

Juanita is calm. She explains that we don’t get utility bills because our landlord pays the utility bills. I erupt. “We were here two weeks ago, and the DMV agent explained what we needed, and we have what we need.” Reluctantly, the receptionist assigns us our numbers and waves us into the waiting area.

We wait on the plastic chairs. Juanita is calmly knitting. I sit staring at the floor. Soon our numbers are called — first Juanita’s, then mine. We hurry to our assigned windows — Window 4 and Window 5. My agent is sitting at her desk on her side of the window. “I am here!” she says cheerily. “What can I do for you?”

I am ready. I have rehearsed this moment back up on the mountain. I pull out my portfolio of DMV documents and hand them to her. She looks them over. From my portfolio, she pulls out a color brochure of new tires. She also finds results of a smog test that I passed two years ago. It suddenly hits me that, after all my practice, I have given her the wrong portfolio.

“I am so sorry. Here is the right folder.” I give her another portfolio and take back the wrong one. For sure, I am doomed. The agent checks my passport. She checks the two proofs of our address — our home rental lease agreement, and another document approving our car registration. She says that everything looks good. I begin to breathe. Is my luck changing? Silently, I reconfirm my commitment to the God of the Universe.

My agent gets social as she stamps this paper and that. She says she is happy because in two weeks she will be a grandmother — twin boys!” “I thought you were 32!”

“For that, young man,” she announces, “I am ready to give you your driver’s license and Real ID! As a matter of record, I am 50 years old!”

Another agent, a woman I had noticed earlier, stands up at the adjacent window, eager to join the conversation. “How about me?” she calls over. “How old would you say I am?” We establish eye contact. I respond without hesitation. “You are definitely 26.” “Give the man his license!” she exclaims.

I pay the fee. I notice to my right that Juanita is paying her fee. We are handed our papers. My agent explains, “All you have to do now is get your photo taken and then take the written test of 40 questions.”

“Do you think you could come and help me take the test?” I ask hesitantly. “The DMV frowns on such things,” the agent says.

We go over to the photo man, the machine flashes and then it’s time for the written test. The test is given in a corner of the DMV office where there are 12 or 15 computer terminals. Juanita stands at a booth, and I am allowed to sit because I don’t have good legs. I start clicking my answers. I’m tense. I have to pass this test! No way am I going to drive down that kamakazi mountain road a third time.

Suddenly, the computer sounds an alarm and announces in red letters that my last answer is wrong. One down. I can’t get any more wrong. BLING! Another one wrong!

I have studied the “California Rules of the Road” for at least three weeks. I answer a few more correctly. Then BLING! Another wrong answer. Three wrong! This isn’t happening. I am agitated. I call on the divine. Make haste to give me the answers, O Lord! Four wrong!

My goose is cooked. I know it now. I’m a failure in my career, in my family life, in my driving. Most of my wrong answers have to do with numbers. Are you allowed to park 15 feet from a fire station — or is it 50 feet? How many feet before an intersection do you start signaling left or right if you have to turn left or right? I am not sure about the next answer so I skip it. You are allowed to skip an answer, and then it will reappear at the end of the test so you can try again.

Boldly, but with a sinking heart, I keep answering the questions. The next question depicts a little sign with a person walking — and I click “Pedestrian crossing.” It’s the right answer! Suddenly, after a few more correct answers, the screen lights up with huge lettering YOU PASSED!

I stare at the words. They are wonderful words. I rise from the executioner’s chair. I report that I passed, and the clerk says “Good — you’ll get your Real ID in the mail in two to three weeks.”

“I passed! I passed!” I announce to the whole DMV office. Everyone smiles and laughs and some clap.

I find Juanita sitting in her plastic chair, calmly knitting. “I passed!” I announce again. “What about you?” She answers calmly, “Would I be sitting here if I didn’t pass?”

We go outside and get in the car. They accepted our paperwork! We passed the test!

We head back on Florida to go up the mountain road to Idyllwild. “We passed!” we announce to neighbors Dan and Robin, Joel and Keri, Patricia and Diana.

Now watch us drive. Watch us watch the signs — Icy, Watch for Snow, Chains Are Required, Turn Around-Don’t Drown.