Cuyahoga Falls, OH: It’s a breezy, sunny Friday afternoon. The date has been scheduled for five weeks. It’s finally time to take the driver’s license road exam. The driving part isn’t that hard, but the maneuverability section could put a storm cloud over this beautiful day. The examiner struts out of the building with more salt than pepper hair and a countenance so cold that it is the reason that a man’s not hot.

As she steps into the car, she slides her rhinestone-cornered spectacles onto her face, gives a look of annoyance, and announces to pull up to the maneuverability cones. The Nemo-colored cones stare me down and taunt my every thought. I pull forward ready to accept defeat, but then the words of Devo spill into my thoughts. A new sensation hits me (maybe it was INXS), and I pull the car through the cones passing the test with flying colors. Some might say I whipped it, whipped it good (no wait, it was Devo).

Now it’s on to the easy part: street driving. Apparently it’s impossible to fail at the Cuyahoga Falls BMV, but through God all things are possible… so jot that down. I turn out of the parking lot, feeling like a new man. But then a bold squirrel jumps in front of the car throwing off my mojo. It was like when the power went out at the Super Bowl, or the rain delay at the 2016 World Series. This squirrel was the difference between me getting my L’s and taking an L.

I am spooked, but I reign it back in. We pull back into the parking lot of the BMV. Adrenaline pumping. Heart pounding. I am confident that the examiner is the spawn of Satan and her hobbies include kicking the defenseless and breaking hearts..
I park the car and look at her.  She utters, in a toothy grin: “You Failed.” I swear to God himself that I have never seen anyone more satisfied to obliterate what would have otherwise been a good day.

This monster has the audacity to tell me that my right hand turns were too wide.

The emotions inside of me were ready to open a can of good ol’ American whoop… (well, you know), but instead I give her a look of stoicism. I could not decide what my last words were going to be to this foul beast.

Whom shall I quote? Hamilton? Jefferson? Burr? (Our founding fathers have some great clap backs by the way).  But instead, I go with the far less celebrated Lile Menendez, “Thank you Examiner Roberta, have a nice life.”

The sarcasm was dripping from my words. I was feeling so powerful but so defeated at the same time, for even though I fired and flame roasted that witch, she had a license and a car (And probably, like, 40 cats), and all I had left: a far too cold Friday afternoon, a broken dream and another a few days of carpool karaoke with my mom.