There is an entire range of emotion that floods your body when you receive your first, real drivers’ license. You’re, what, sixteen-maybe seventeen? Up to this point, you’ve mostly been a Passenger, someone with both hands free and no need to pay attention to the road. Your control in the car has never extended much beyond not hitting your sister in the backseat, or finding the George Jones tape in the glove box. Up to the last half year, when they gave you the magical, fragile piece of paper that granted Restricted Freedom, that is. Your portion of control leaped that much closer to what you had been aching for. In the beginning, it was awesome. I mean, yea … your Mom or Dad or on rare occasions some other “adult” had to ride along shotgun just to make sure they knew the rules as well as you did. But those first few times out, that was fine. Then you didn’t want your Dad to take you out, and when your Mom had you take her to the Salon and introduced you to her blue-haired gal pals as her Daughter Who’s All Grown Up Now, you suddenly didn’t feel so much like driving around your neighborhood or going to the store. Then a friend of yours got her license and suddenly she qualified as an “adult” … she was cool, she let you blast the radio and check the mirror in the middle of traffic – she let you drive in traffic. You felt very old, but in the good way.
Your first time attempting to get your license was a disaster. The DMV guy turns out to be a Claremore cop who hasn’t cracked a smile since Adam-12. You take off your cool sunglasses, there’s really no point. Various mini-disasters befall you and your vehicle those fifteen nerve-racking minutes of your test. The car and your passenger arrive back at the DMV unscathed, but you know the results ahead of time. It’s no surprise to you when he hands you the red 76.
Driving isn’t so fun anymore. Not even when your friend drives up in her almost new red Jetta and asks you if you wanna spin it around the block or maybe somewhere else. You go, of course (you’re sixteen), but your heart isn’t entirely in it … for the first few minutes, but when you make that little blue Civic eat your dust down Mingo it’s all adrenaline, baby!
You suck up all your courage and make another appointment at the DMV – a different one, screw that cop bastard! Your Dad’s less enthusiastic when he wishes you good luck the next morning (I believe his exact words were “Don’t screw up this time, huh?”), but that only makes you want to spite him and ace that damn test.
This guy’s got a pocket protector and a perfect mask of apathy when he approaches you and your car. You smile, you get in the driver’s side, you buckle your seatbelt and prepare yourself by the book. It feels a little weird not immediately reaching for the radio, but you know better than that. He motions for you to drive forward and you’re off.
Fifteen minutes later you’ve succeeded in spiting your Dad. And that was your first successful attempt at parallel parking. The guy gives you a curt nod, in place of a smile, and hands you a red 98. That’s the best day of your life.
A few days to weeks later, the plastic-coated wafer of freedom arrives in the mail … you’ve been using your temporary license up to this point, so that first glow of freedom has begun to fade, but there’s something so much more real and un-repossessable about the final version. And, yes, the picture is rather unflattering and you look kind of pissed – why were you pissed? – but you don’t plan on showing anyone your beautiful license without covering up the picture with your thumb, do you? And what are the odds of you being stopped by a cute cop (evidently 1 in 14)?
There’s a card that comes along with the license. It’s a miniature contract of sorts, essentially a plea for your organs. It says – and you read this several times – “In the event of your death, this legally binding contract states that you would like to …” at which point they present the choices you can make regarding your own flesh and the distribution of said flesh upon your departure. Pretty heady stuff for sixteen. I mean, by this time you’ve probably come to know death as a reality – beloved pets, your grandparents, unfortunate peers – but you haven’t spent much time actually pondering the consequences. You’re only sixteen. You’re too engulfed with life to make decisions for death. They’re asking you to decide on something you don’t even want to think about.
Your parents are silent, watching you, waiting for you to say something. They have to sign this same contract every four years, and it still makes them hesitate. You think of saying something to them, asking them for advice, but you know they’ll just tell you it’s your decision and it’s an important decision to make, so don’t rush into it.
You fight the vague split-screen image in your head of your dead body and a dying child in a wheelchair. Tugging at the heart strings is no way to decide. What do you want to do with your body when you die? Which just draws you into the room full of flying question marks with Religion on the door. When you die, are you dead? Really and truly dead? No ifs, ands or buts dead? And when you’re really, truly dead beyond all reasonable doubt, will you need your dead body? Ghosts walk around in their own bodies … will you be made fun of by other ghosts for a missing liver? Or here’s a question … does God take offense, you offering up your liver to the first needy person after your death? Isn’t there something about the sanctity of the human body … what does that mean? Will you offend others like your parents or the poor dude whose job it is to be spelunking in your innards? Or would it be more offensive to be selfish?
Finally, too young to fully appreciate and endure all the various philosophies and ramifications of each one, you grab the pen off the table and sign the contract with a flourish. You check the box preceding “donate any of your organs, tissues or parts”. You justify it quickly and quietly: I’m too young to have to worry about it. You pause while putting the card into your wallet, behind the brand new, beautiful wafer of freedom. That’s it, one pause. And with the license and card tucked safely behind the plastic window, you turn to your parents and ask for the keys to the Saturn. They laugh for a few minutes and hand you the keys to your mother’s Taurus. Safe, reliable …. You’re sixteen – what do you care? You take the keys and skip outside.
