The Holy Grail

The lights dim twice, signaling the audience that the show is about to begin.

Most everyone has a certain goal in their life, a Holy Grail, if you will, that they search for day and night, week after week, month after month. They fantasize of what they will do once their task is completed. They plan, strategize, analyze the ways in which their goal will be attainable. When they search for this Holy Grail, people are able to think beyond the capacity of their normal functions. Think outside the box.

This Holy Grail can be any of a wide variety of things. Some people strive to build something--finish the Puzz-3D set they started nearly a decade ago. Design a house to accomodate oneself and, perhaps, family, complete with hot tubs, viewing decks, and the finest security system in the world. Others want a more intellectual glory--compose the Great American Novel. Master the art of poetry. Paint a self-portrait.

In some cases, this Holy Grail is desired because the person is searching for the unparalleled feeling of satisfaction with oneself, knowing that their life is complete and that they've done everything they need to do. Or, people strive for this Holy Grail on a more competitive level. "If he can do it, why can't I?" "I can do this so much better than anyone else."

The Holy Grail.

The impossible dream.

The reward to serve as proof of one's struggles and accomplishments.

My Holy Grail is passing the goddamn road test.

Today marks the second time that I've failed. No, it's not because I'm a bad driver, not at all. I'm a pretty damn good one, in fact - I've mastered handling the LIE and Northern State Parkway faster than most of my friends (been driving on them since day 2 of getting my permit, which would be January of 2003). The reasons are circumstantial and purely bad luck.

Oh, the road tests haven't been so bad, really. They confirmed in my mind that women are indeed evil--notice how the word "evil" springs from "Eve," the female companion of Adam that offered him the apple in the Garden of Eden.

The theater lights dim and fade into darkness as the spotlight shines center stage.

July 13 and it's pretty gloomy outside in Patchogue. A light drizzle is falling on the roads, making things a little more difficult to handle. It's nothing new to me, though. I've driven in snow, heavy rain, dense fog. In fact, I'm even able to pass the weather off as a joke.

"You know, bad weather conditions often make it easier to pass the road test," I tell my parents. I'm sitting in the driver's seat of our Honda coupe, my dad to my right and my mom in the backseat. They nod and show they are in agreement. My father even relates how he had taken his road test years ago in the middle of a snow storm.

Enter the examiner, stage left.

The examiner for this road test appeared to be straight out of a horror movie. No, she's not the scream queen teen running away from the crazily deformed chainsaw murderer freak. She is the crazily deformed chainsaw murderer freak. Her maroon hair is disheveled and flying out in all directions, as if she had just blow-dried her hair after getting electrocuted. Her skin gives the image that she is affected by leukemia it's so yellow. She could have been a character out of the Simpsons. In addition to that, her skin also shows signs of poor preservation from the years. She easily looks older than 50 or 60 years of age.

She wears a maroon jacket that perfectly matches her hair. She also wears a black skirt, folded about four inches above her knees. In fact, she appears to be some kind of transvestite hooker waiting for a customer on a corner in the slums just ouside the strip in Las Vegas. Had she been wearing fishnet stalkings, the look would be complete.

Upon her face is a permanent frown. The only time you would be able to catch her smiling is when you turn her pictures upside-down. Behind her horn-rimmed glasses are demonic eyes that scream the cries of the millions of tortured souls confined to the lowest bowels of hell.

My father offers to close the door for her as she steps into the car. She looks at him and sneers, her lip curling and displaying a set of fangs. Closing the door herself, she looks at me with those unmerciful eyes.

"Good morning," I say genially, hoping that she would calm whatever devil she had dwelling with her.

"Your ID and certificates," she says mechanically, completely ignoring my greeting.

At this point, I conclude, if you can't even greet a person who greets you sincerely, you have failed at life. The only way that this examiner could have gotten to be this way is if she had found out she had stage four metastacized ovarian cancer and breast cancer, her husband deserted her and took the kids, and her favorite soap operas were cancelled all on the same day.

The next ten minutes are filled with her screaming at me, attempting to assert that she is a superior being because (a) she has the power to pass or fail me and (b) she's a bitch. At one point, she even mocks me while I make a right turn.

The test over, she says curtly, "You need to reschedule another road test," and leaves the car. Fortunately, I had parked right on top of a puddle. When she stepped out, she had to walk through it. I briefly considered moving the car while she was getting out so that she would fall head-first into the mud.

Alas, I should have done it.

Intermission. Act II.

August 17, today, was a pretty nice day. Not too warm as to cause heat stroke. Not too cool as to not want to blast the air conditioning. Clouds litter the sky, and I look to them while I wait for my turn for the road test, trying to decipher shapes out of them.

I saw a sailboat and a woman's right breast, but that's really all up to my imagination.

This time around, I've practiced nonstop for the test. Rather, my father made me practice nonstop. You'd think that after parallel parking 6-12 inches away from the curb 40 times consecutively would be enough to prove that you're prepared for that part of the test, but not really. In fact, my father practiced me so much that it grew very frustrating when I parked 13 inches away from the curb.

Last night I had gotten no sleep at all. There were many things going through my head, but most of all, I was anxious because of the test.

Turns out, I could have just slept it off and not gone to the road test anyway because all I did was waste my time.

For this road test, my examiner was another woman. She is the matronly, nurturing type with thick glasses and curly hair. If I hadn't seen the examination apparatus she carried on her body, I would have mistaken her for a soccer mom.

She seems to be a very nice person. Unfortunately, "seems" is the key word to that sentence. From my experience today, I have confirmed that outward appearance and casual conversation do no more than tell you how much a person will bullshit you.

Her instructions are simple, easy to follow. The course itself is easy. In fact, the only part I messed up at was at the final intersection, when I made my turn in too close a proximity of other cars. It was at this point that the examiner changed face.

It's almost funny to realize how the conversation we had in our car went from "You went to the Bahamas? Really? Wow, I'm planning to go to Bermuda ..." to "You're going to die."

I failed because of the last turn I made on the intersection. My street had stop signs and the intersecting street didn't. I misjudged the distance between my car and the oncoming cars and ... well, you can take it from there. I didn't hit anything though.

Damn.

Well, at least that's not the end. There's hope yet.

The waiting process for your next road test can be a very difficult thing. Some people have to wait weeks, even months, for their next appointment. Usually, it's a 3-5 week wait, but I've seen up to 8 or 9 already in places just outside of New York City.

Luck happens to be on my side for once though. I haven't seen my side of luck for the last several months, so something's got to be happening for me when an opportunity like this pops up.

Next road test: August 23 in Cooperstown, upstate NY. It's a 5-hour drive, but I don't really care at this point. What's a 5-hour drive in comparison to all the driving I'm going to do when I get the license? I'll consider this trip my journey from The Shire to Mt. Doom to destroy the One Ring. My journey up Mt. Everest to place a flag at the summit and claim it as mine.

My attainment of the Holy Grail.

The cast comes out to take their final bows and the audience cheers them to do an encore. Yes, it was a musical. The cast, content with their performance for this evening, agree to do one. Getting into position as the house lights dim once again, they get ready to sing one more song ...