Driving Me Crazy

---

Monday 23rd June to Sunday 29th June

At long last. Five weeks over here and I am finally beginning to get to grips with the American dream and the way it all works, especially here in California. Cally is a state occupied by more nationalities than any other, a mini league of nations, and its inhabitants apparently look upon themselves as superior to their fellow countrymen. Perhaps understandably as a result they are not particularily liked by the rest of America (a bit similar to Cockney's in the UK), a fact confirmed by Uncle Ted last week during one of his between song rants when he stated that all the decent and good Californian's were present in the House of Blues watching him and something not helped by their undoubted superiority complex and insistence to do things their own unique way. Any newcomer to the state of California, even if simply moving across the border from one of its closest neighbours' such as Nevada or Arizona have to apply for a Californian Driving Licence within ten days of their arrival. This rule applies to foreigners too although more pressing matters such as setting up home meant that I left it three weeks before applying for mine and it is irrelevant if you've driven a car for thirty years or more in a neighbouring state without so much as a hint of an accident, this is California and their law says you have to do things their way which involves passing two tests, written and driven before your licence is granted.

I've already documented in these blogs frustrations that star spangled red tape has inflicted on me since my arrival; Forms galore to lease a vehicle, forms galore to insure it, problems and delays with banks and other organisations and a refusal by all and sundry to accept even your existence without possession of either the infamous 'Social Security' number or a credit history, impossible to obtain without either the aforementioned SS number or a credit card and which in turn is impossible to get hold of without an SS number or credit history ! Talk about chicken and egg. A ridiculous state of paranoia brought on by the events of 9/11.

As if that wasn't enough to contend with there's the endless infuriating hours I've spent waiting for the telephones of various institutions to answer. When eventually your call is answered you will inevitably greeted by a sickly sweet voiced recorded message that firstly spends an age telling you that you may be recorded for training or other purposes and which then goes through various useless alternatives before finally arriving at the option you and probably everyone else calling are after only to then tell you to call another completely different number which, when you do (if you were lucky enough to have a pen handy to right it down) goes through exactly the same procedure. The employees of F & G's Seal Beach office must regard me as a somewhat aggressive and narky individual by now as every now and again the pin drop silence of the office will be shattered by my inability to resist slamming my phone back onto its receiver accompanying it with a muffled curse in a futile attempt to expel my frustrations. I am also now absolutely positive that whilst sitting waiting for a phone to answer the person you are calling sits inches from it doing something, anything, other than what they are being paid for, to answer it. I know because I've seen it many times.

Ask any American citizen the question and they'll no doubt tell you that the good old US of A is a country full of honest, friendly folk who work their (white knee length) cotton socks off to ensure that it remains number one in the list of world super powers but I'm now not so sure. It's probably the shortage of holidays (two weeks per year is the usual first year quota with any new job) and longer working hours that initially led me to believe that this was the way but the longer I am out here and the more I speak to people the more I realise it is a fable. Americans, and this isn't a reflection on the F & G staff who are 95% immigrants anyway, are adept at looking and talking busy and just this week alone I've come across more than enough examples.The first was on Monday.

I left the office at lunchtime armed with nothing but a bagfull of nerves and an appointment card en route to the local DMV driving test centre. The DMV's reputation as an organisation of gross incompetence precedes it to the extent that it is has recently been the subject of jokes on national TV phenomenon 'Family Guy' but it's shortcomings exceeded even what I could have imagined. I presented my card to the balding, fat slob (I hate to be predujiced but after thirty seconds in his company I'd deduced that was exactly what he was)wedged behind his window who bluntly asked me for my Social Number. In my nervous haste to make sure I was on time I had forgotten to write the number down and also to put my passport in my pocket and he seemed to take great pleasure in informing me that if that was the case then there'd be no test for me today. A brainwave followed by a quick call to the office however changed that and a definite look of disappointment etched itself onto his greasy chops when I returned. After filling in yet another form he finally pointed to another window and instructed me go across for an eye test from where I was then directed to yet another window to be photographed and have finger prints taken before finally being told to go through the unmarked door behind me.

The room was partitioned into booths that reminded me of the school language lab and which were occupied by people busily scribbling away and staring open mouthed into the air for inspiration. You could almost hear their brains whirring away. There were three windows at one end of the room and a queue of nervous looking folk stretched away from the only manned one of them where a stressed out looking hispanic woman sat scrolling through completed test papers. Unbelievably her two colleagues, a man and a young Asian girl stood at the back of their office cradling a hot drink each and chatting and joking making no attempt to do their job and either help their colleague or attempt to diffuse the queue that was starting to snake around the room. It was all I could do to stop myself from banging on the glass and shouting at them to get their asses into gear and help out.

The DMV issue a booklet much like our highway code but I'd only managed a brief flick through from the comfort of a sun lounger in Palm Springs before boredom took over and my mind drifted off to other more pressing issues such as what I was going to have for dinner that night and it found itself tossed back into my bag. Always the smart ass I'd assumed that multiple choice questions on driving and it's rules and regulations, even with some of the strange practices found out here would be a stroll in the park. I had been driving over here now for five weeks after all and must surely know it all. I had been told the test would consist of thirty six multiple choice questions on the bleedin' obvious of which you could get six wrong and still pass so although a little tense I was sure it'd be a doddle. How wrong could one be ?

Having found myself a booth still smiling at the big black woman with the pumpkin ass she had somehow managed to squeeze into a pair of skin tight lime green leggings in front of me in the queue who, on receipt of her test paper enquired of the assistant in a loud, booming voice "'Scuse me miss. Can I go to the bathroom?" hoping she could sneak her paper in with her I took a cursory glance at my own. My jaw dropped. This wasn't going to be as straightforward as I thought. The first question I read through properly read thus;-

Which child requires a child passenger restraint system ?

a. A six year old weighing 60 pounds
b. A five year old weighing 55 pounds
c. A five year old weighing 65 pounds

What ??!! How the friggin' hell do I know? was the first thought that flashed into my mind whilst at the same time cursing the typical stupidity of the US system. I had a picture in my head of a aviator shaded traffic cop pulling a large set of scales out of his boot to weigh a little fat kid whilst the parent stood alongside aghast in the realisation that the Big Mac with large fries and coke the child had just devoured could just have pushed them into traffic law violation territory and the inevitable accompanying ticket.

I scanned the test paper again and the realisation quickly dawned on me that succeeding was going to depend on a huge slice of lady luck.

It is illegal to drive with an alcoholic beverage container that has been opened if the container is:

a. Under the front seat
b. In the glove compartment
c. In the trunk

What ??!! No idea. All three ? I dunno, ain't got a clue. I decided to go through the questions in numerical order and answer only the ones I was absolutely positive of, there was no time limit after all. I got to the end and had answered nine of the thirty six and repeated the process again and again until there were about seven similar to the above of which I basically had no idea. I'd have more chance of pinning a tail on a donkey. I eventually marked my last x, exhaled a big breath and nervously joined the queue. Ahead of me people were turning away with faces that told the whole story, huge relief and smiles of joy of the passers, hunched shoulders and dread at the thought of telling their friends and the inconvenience of a re-take of the failers and I passed on my congratulations to a couple of overjoyed people who walked by me until finally it was my turn.

The Asian girl had finished her chat and returned to her window by now and I handed her my paper. She lined it up against the marking form (remember this is a country that forty years ago put man on the moon and they're still doing things like this manually) and I pressed my face against the glass as she started to trace her red pen down scanning for errors. Questions six and seven were wrong as were nineteen and twenty one. Fifteen questions left and I was only allowed to get two more wrong. Thirty four, the alcohol question was also wrong but that was it. I'd passed with five incorrect answers (the child one was also guessed incorrectly) and let out a loud cheer in recognition which caused several heads to pop up from the booth's like startled merecats. I didn't care.

The following day saw yet more frustration. Since moving in I had been living without a gas supply but fear of starting to look like a rabbit through excessive salad intake and a desire to eat something hot had made me finally act. Under normal circumstances you can activate your supply on line but not, of course, without your Social Security number. Although I had finally received mine over the telephone days earlier I was told it could still take months before it is on all the Government computer systems so I rang the City Hall and was told I would have to call in to their downtown offices in person. Not entirely convinced that the woman I was speaking to knew what she was talking about I rang again the following day and was told I'd have to go to the Social Security office first and get written proof from them of my number and then call in. Good job I checked.

Social security and benefit offices are were you expect to find people on the wrong side of the bread line, quite literally socially insecure people and this was one no different. There must have been several representatives of each of the world's continent's waiting patiently, some accompanied by litters of young children, several of them non-English speaking as I took my ticket from the uniformed security guard and found a seat to wait. It was hard enough moving to this country as an English speaker so goodness knows how you'd survive if you didn't. It reminded me of my train journey through Australia where every social misfit for miles seemed to congregate and finally, after a good half hour wait my number was called.

I explained my simple dilemna to the Asian man behind the desk and he asked for my passport. After painfully slowly and one fingeredly typing a few things into his computer he finally looked up over his glasses. I was half expecting "Computer say noooo" to come out of his mouth.

"What city you born in" he snapped in broken Mandarin english

"Wallasey, UK" I replied at the same time pointing through the glass partition to my passport. "It's written in the back" I helpfully offered. Mistake.

"I ask questions" he barked bringing pictures of Tenko and the Bridge Over the River Kwai racing to mind.

"Oh sorry" was all I could say.

As I was putting the Jeep into drive to return to the office I suddenly felt a slight rocking motion. My initial thought was that I didn't think I'd gone anywhere near to the kerb but a quick glance in the mirror revealed a battered old gold coloured motor stuckfast against mine. "F***** Hell" I shouted. I got out and slowly walked around the vehicle praying there'd be no damage and noted two areas on the rear bumper where the paint had been removed and then an elderly man struggling to get out of his car.

He apologised, again in broken English (it happened he was from Argentina) and tried to convince me that the damage was nothing to worry about. I sympathised with him but three days after picking the Jeep up some twat had run a key haphazardly along the bonnet of the Jeep and now this. The damage may not have been massive but even so I thought, in a country as legally obsessed as this I'd better get his details, just in case he pops his clogs sometime in the next ten to fifteen years (highly likely) and I get a letter in the post containing manslaughter charges from a grieving twice removed relative living in Buenos Aires. After a couple of minutes of rubbing paint and looking at the skies however his opinions had appeared to have changed, prompted no doubt by my slowly explaining to him that the vehicle wasn't yet licenced as it was brand new and that I didn't yet actually have a driving licence. He caught on like someone sixty years his junior and all of a sudden he was now trying to say it was my fault.

"Don't give me that shite" I snapped. I was cheesed off enough and wasn't about to have some senile old fool telling me I'd erred when I obviously hadn't. "Look what you've done to my new car." I squealed "I've got a camera in my bag and I can take a picture that will prove whose fault it was". I didn't but he didn't know.

The use of a scouse term obviously confused him, "No, you don't give ME that sheet. Look what YOU'VE done to MY car" he replied somewhat unconvincingly.

I realised I was urinating into a force ten gale and eventually told him to forget it at which his opinion suddenly returned to one of apology and, no doubt, huge relief.

Wednesday bought yet more misery. To be permitted entry to any Californian oil refinery over here you have to have attended and passed a health and safety course and my day long course was programmed for 8am on Wednesday morning at The Long Beach Medical Centre in the heart of the most undesirable part of the City. I arrived at ten to eight, was relieved to find a manned car park to safely leave the Jeep in, entered and went to one of the windows to enrol. In the UK at such things you walk in, sit down, help yourself to the free coffee and wait to begin but not here. I was immediately asked for my social security number but of course didn't have it. To reduce weight load I'd changed bags and the pad containing my number was back at the flat. Passport ? Same.

I know you will be thinking it's his own stupid fault and I suppose it really is but carrying ID around, especially something as valuable as a passport takes some getting used to.

"I'll just whizz home and get them" I said to the woman behind the glass "I'll only be twenty minutes"

"You'll be too late, they won't let you in" she replied. I didn't have time to take in what she'd just said as I'd just had a brainwave. Why not do as I'd done on Monday and phone the office, Megan would have my number on her computer as I'd e mailed it her to forward to HR when I first received it and minutes later I returned to the window full of relief.

"Here it is" I said, proudly pushing the paper under the screen.

It was a different woman but without speaking she looked up at me, glanced down at the appointment paper then at her watch and shook her head. "You're too late, the course has started and they won't let you in". I looked at my watch and it read five minutes past eight, not even enough time to have carried out introductions. I must have looked dumstruck. It is always nice to receive news like that from a sympathetic source but her expression didn't change one iota.

"I can book you on the 2:30 course if you like" She added almost as an after thought

"What time does that finish?"

"Well it says ten o'clock but it's always over by nine thirty."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing, mumbled "no thanks", turned and with an air of disbelief slowly walked to my car and drove to the office.

The big brother is watching scenario over here is so blatantly obvious also. Police are everywhere, in cars, on quad bikes, in helicopters and even on mountain bikes which under normal circumstances would instill more than a sense of safety and well being. I say normally but in my first week here I read an article in one of the local rags about the corrupt nature of the Long Beach police force so it's no doubt best to stay as far away from them as possible. One poor lad who hasn't quite managed that is Stephen from the office, a thirty year old Macclesfield lad who has received three seperate driving tickets in the last week which has seen him relieved of hundreds of dollars and living in fear of losing his licence. One was for driving without lights, okay he deserves that one but it is easily done, one was for entering the freeway in the pool lane, a lane reserved for cars carrying more than one person and an offence that carries a $341 fine and one for turning right as a light changed from amber to red without stopping. Any thoughts of contesting that one ended when he received a letter from LBPD which he thought was about one of the other incidents containing four seperate SLR quality photographs of his misdemeanor from different angles and showing date, time, speed and no doubt a host of other useless facts and figures.

The weekend arrived with my observation to Phil that this was the first weekend of the holiday that I didn't have anything planned. Holiday !! It's not supposed to be a bloody holiday !! All I can add is that despite working a forty hour five day week the weather, proximity to the ocean and the general Californian lifestyle can't help but give life that sort of vibe. Phil also told that I might be about to be sent on my first job. Ivan, one of the several Venezualan's employed by F & G had handed his notice in which left the site role he was earmarked for vacant and I might be just the man for the job. Time for a celebration then marked with a wild night out on Friday and a weekend of relaxation which included looking at boats for sale, a connected gas supply, a spot of paddle boarding which involves standing on a surf board and using an oar to propel yourself through the water, not easy when like me you possess the balance of a weeble, a play with Bosco, the gorgeous bulldog pup of neighbour and F & G employee Danielle and which ended with a visit from the cable TV man on Sunday morning, an early afternoon visit to Legends to watch Spain deservedly triumph over the Krauts and a few hours on the beach.

---

Photos

Driving Me Crazy
Bosco, my new neighbour looking happy. His eye is soon to be fixed.

Driving Me Crazy
Carla, Lisa 2's South African friend

Driving Me Crazy
Summertime in Belmont Shore. Closed streets, balloons and Police Bands.

Driving Me Crazy
Anything goes

Driving Me Crazy
Phil wrestles with a bride to be. Not sure he knows why !

Driving Me Crazy
Lisa 2 on a wild friday night.

Driving Me Crazy
Carla's hubby Angus and S.African Carin. She holds the same post as Phil, the boss. Bit better than my boss of the last 20 years !

Driving Me Crazy
Backstage pass. Entertainment in The Springbok Bar.

Driving Me Crazy
Three three sheeters, Nigel and his daughter Kim

Driving Me Crazy
Carla and Lisa 2

Driving Me Crazy
2am and the end of a heavy friday night.

Driving Me Crazy
Beach

Driving Me Crazy
Beach

Driving Me Crazy
Beach

Driving Me Crazy
Beach

Driving Me Crazy
Neighbour/colleague Danielle with Bosco

Driving Me Crazy
It all got too much for Bosco

Driving Me Crazy
Test paper

Driving Me Crazy
The Spaniards celebrate

Comments

[waymo]

of course there was no doubt your luck wouldn't have got you thru that test. git!

[Lise]

Dont' Break the traffic laws!
another thing for you to think about BUT! speaking of tickets, it is virtually impossible to have a ticket revoked, once the LBPD have handed you the ticket, the administration side of it is taken over by a private firm. A lot of the Boys in Blue's misdemeanors can be read at www.ocweekly.com, particuarly the excellent investigations by R. Scott Moxley. See you at the Beach, hard life :)

[Terry Jones]

Hi Matty
Good to see you are settling down. Sure you will make the grade and you look after you look after yourself. Is there a job there for Ginge. Terry