Back when I turned 16, I spent a good deal of my birthday with sweaty palms, jerky stomach and a cat-like nervousness, waiting for a Wisconsin state trooper in reflector sunglasses to tell me that I had done enough right to get a driver’s license.
I had and did, but last week, 40 years to the day later, there I was again, sweaty palms, jerky stomach and dead tired after spending a good part of the weekend and the night before cramming for the written test for my Illinois driver’s license renewal. Even though I risk driving the length of the Dan Ryan Expressway twice a day without a qualm, the thought of having to be tested about how I do it terrified me.
Everyone to whom I had casually mentioned in the last month that I was going to have to take the written test this time around had almost the same reaction.
“I almost failed because of the railroad crossing question,” said one.
“Be sure to know all the signs. If you miss even one, you fail,” warned another.
“Read the book. Memorize `Rules of the Road,’ ” said they all, nodding seriously and ominously.
How did this happen, I wondered? I must have had to take that written test over the last four decades, but I didn’t recall. I did remember vividly my very first driver’s test when I moved to Illinois in 1967. Fresh out of Wisconsin with hayseeds in my pockets and the smell of cheddar on my breath, I think my biggest worry was that I would not recognize the moment when the examiner would ask for the bribe. Illinois was different at the time. There was no bribe request then, and I passed anyway, and everything went along smoothly until this year.
It was on a cold morning last February when I carefully looked both ways while stopped at a red light on Roosevelt Road and then slowly turned right onto Halsted Street. Seconds later, I saw the flashing light in my rearview mirror and slowed to allow the Chicago police car to pass and arrest the felon he was chasing. The miscreant, though, turned out to be me.
I had, it seemed, turned right on red between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., and a sign at the intersection, I guess, said don’t.
The police officer (who was wearing reflector shades similar to those of the Wisconsin trooper 40 years ago) was a humorless sort, who didn’t even smile at my explanation that I had been distracted by the drug dealers standing at the corner when I made my illegal turn.
Being guilty, I paid my fine and, in the process, acquired a rap sheet. My nearly spotless driving record now had a big smudge on it, and that smudge apparently was noticed by the people in Secretary of State George Ryan’s office.
So there I was last week, standing in a long line of similarly situated driver’s license hopefuls, in a big strip mall in Midlothian. I had arrived early and spent a few last minutes reviewing my signs and colors and sample questions in my well-thumbed “Rules of the Road.”
One thing I had come to realize in the week before was that it just isn’t as easy to study for tests anymore as it was in high school or college. For one thing, I had become more prone to analyze the information, rather than accepting it at face value. I had become cynical and suspicious and kept looking for trick questions and pitfalls.
The next 70 minutes moved quickly. The older guy in front of me had to take his vision test three times before he passed it. The younger woman after him had, literally, no identification. I, on the other hand, was completely prepared, although the license renewal notification in my hand had become kind of soggy.
The vision test was a breeze. Paying the cashier was a no-brainer.
Then came the dreaded written test. The examiner who was wrestling with her new computer tossed me a long sheet of paper, told me to answer only the questions that weren’t crossed out and return to her when I was through.
This was it. This was the moment that would decide whether I was to get my driver’s license renewed (and whether George Ryan had a chance of getting my vote for governor in November.)
The 20 true-or-false and multiple-choice questions were pretty easy, if you had memorized all 102 pages of “Rules of the Road.” The unlettered signs started easy and got harder. Fortunately, you had to match the names of the signs with the pictures of the signs, so after I nailed the obvious ones, I went back and figured out which names were left and attached them to the remaining signs. Just good logical reasoning.
I walked, no, swaggered, back to the computer-fighting woman, and she quickly ran through my answer sheet. “You got every one right,” she said, in a rather surprised tone.
“Yes,” I responded, “but the question about drunken driving is inaccurate. The blood level for intoxication is now .08, and not .10.”
She simply sighed and pointed me toward the photo area. Got in line, responded when my name was called, got my picture taken, got my driver’s license. One hour and 10 minutes, start to finish.
It’s hard to remember exactly how I felt 40 years ago, but it must have been a lot like I felt returning to my car in the strip mall parking lot, fresh new driver’s license in my wallet, four more years of hassle-free driving in my future.
On the way to work, I couldn’t help but notice how many bad drivers I encountered. People stopping less than 15 feet from a railroad crossing; people failing to signal at least 100 feet from an intersection; people not yielding to drivers on the right; people not wearing seat belts; people (I suspect) not having insurance or carrying proof of it in their vehicles; people not observing the 2-Second Rule on the Dan Ryan Expressway. (Page 75, “Rules.”)
Not me, though. Perfect. A slam-dunk on the written.
And the next time I get to the intersection of Roosevelt and Halsted, I am not going to turn right on red. No matter what time of day it is.
