Masks: the return. God DAMN it

Metallica’s “King Nothing” face mask. Available at the Met Store.

Some two months ago, someone left a half-opened pot of mustard in a mini fridge at work. When I went to get some, the pot fell, splattering mustard all over the floor, my shoes, and my face, which was covered by my face mask. I had already been vaccinated some two months before, but I was still using them as a statement –you know, encouraging people to keep wearing them, make guests comfortable… But the mustard splatter was impossible to hide, much less clean at the moment. So I showed my face for the first time in almost a year to the staff and guests of my workplace.

I’m not gonna lie, it felt good. Being able to openly smile with my whole face, not just my eyes, for starters. Yeah, I had fun with all the different masks I had bought, from different sources, different styles, as you can see in my Instagram post below. But now I looked forward to never wearing them again. Feeling safe. But I was still uneasy. And it didn’t help that some of my coworkers –people I genuinely know are caring, hard-working, kind-hearted human beings (unlike some of the turds still currently working there)– refuse to get vaccinated. I of course did not say anything back then, because I truly care for these human beings, however misguided their beliefs are, and I thought they would either learn their lesson one way or the other, or they would simply keep wearing the mask and social-distance themselves until the pandemic is over.

I am so saying something right now.

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D. M. Victorious

People_at_work_in_Wartime-_Everyday_Life_in_Wartime_Britain,_1940_D1039I had heard the stories. I had seen the parodies. I had received a tweet called “the worst place in America”. So when the day finally came to meet the place where souls go to die that is the Department of Motor Vehicles of the state of Florida, let’s just say I was a bit wary. But would it be worse than in Caracas?

Like I said in my last post (by the way, thanks for the nice feedback), coming to the States has been a humbling experience, since I am basically resetting my life. Everything is new, everything is for the first time, everything is necessary to have a new life. And that means going back to that moment… ahem… wait… nearly thirty years ago when I drove with my cousin Gilberto to get my first driver’s license.

I am here to tell you that if you think that the DMV is a barren wasteland where hope goes to die, let me tell the story of a place where hope hardly is known called the Department of Terrestrial Traffic in the eastern part of Caracas called El Llanito, where a scrawny nineteen-year-old kid went with his older cousin to get his license. It was an overcast day, which already was a bad sign for me. You park your car and do a line that may have a poor soul that got there the former night. Fortunately, this wasn’t the case today; I only had a few dozen souls ahead of me, mostly kids my age. After about half an hour –a miracle!– someone ushered us in a room with a few desks. The written test was ready to be taken.

I hadn’t precisely studied for said test, so I was even more nervous than usual. The test sheets were already on the desks, so all three of us sat at enough distance of each other and started scribbling at the multi-option questions. I soon learned that the nerves were unnecessary –not in the most ethical way. About ten minutes later, the guy who ushered us in walked inside and stood next to me. Uncomfortably next to me, I might add. Just when I was starting to look up at him with my best WTF face, he started pointing at my sheet and saying, “This one’s A. This is C. This is B”.

In my sleepy haze, it took me a few seconds to realize: he was telling me the answers! I was still a few years away from professional ethics and morals, so I pushed my conscience to the side and starting crossing off letters. After about five minutes –I am shaking my head in disbelief at this– he had given me the entire list of answers. He told me where to take the results and take the road test, then without so much as a nod in my direction, he shuffled off to another guy and started giving him the answers. (And this guy complained! I hope he made it in life.)

If you’re judging me right now for my actions, you’re absolutely right. But such is the way in Venezuela, my friends. Public officials are famous for cutting corners, doing whatever is necessary to make their job (a) easier, (b) more profitable, (c) faster or (d) all the above. That guy probably had a day ahead of him that looked like hell, so all he wanted was to herd these asshole kids away so he could go home or whatever.

The guy with whom I took the road test, though…

He was one of those guys that is all smiles but you’re pretty sure he has a thing for school girls. He greeted me warmly, and got in the car. I was half a foot taller, he was fifteen pounds heavier. Asks my name, writes it on the sheet on his clipboard. First thing he tells me when he gets in? “Hmmm, a ti como que te voy a raspar”. “I think I’ll flunk you”. I laughed, poor naive me. “Ni de vaina”, I replied. And we were off.

I took the curves. I braked. I parked on a hill. I did everything perfect. Except…

“Get in this spot with parallel parking, son”.

Oh sh—

I hated parallel parking back then. I had a mix of bad coordination, general laziness and a whole lotta fear. And this asshole didn’t help. Why would he? He was a sadistic creep who was probably two burgers away from a heart attack and took joy messing up kids like me who JUST WANT THEIR LICENSE.

I line myself up, start to slide in the spot, and have just enough time to convince myself I made it when I feel I bump into the car behind me (oh yeah, no, no cones here. This was an actual spot). I touched it with a little force, but his glasses flew off like I had rammed into it as if I were a rabid buffalo.

“You broke my glasses, kid!”, he said, showing me the broken pair. And he said it with the biggest grin on his face, the bastard. He sort of put them together while I stared, mouth agape, and when he was finished, still grinning, he crossed out the form and said, “Let’s flunk you, shall we?”

I was livid. I got out of the car –my dad’s– and fumed off. My cousin, six years older than me, took one look and burst out laughing. “You flunked, didn’t you?”, he guffawed, incensing me more. “Of course I fucking flunked”, I growled. “Oh lighten up, everyone flunks the first time”, he said. “Give me a second”. He went to find a friend who was a sergeant in the traffic police (yes, there is such a thing) to try and fix things. (Yes, this is why Venezuela is among the most corrupt nations on Earth. No, I’m not proud of it.) And if you believe in karma, you know that she is a stone cold bitch. “Aw, kid, why didn’t you tell me you were friends with her?”, the instructor asked. “I already filed my paperwork! Nothing to be done, I’m sorry”.

It took three months of waiting before I finally got the damn thing. I renewed it ten years later at another location, after waiting –I kid you not– six hours. It was hell, it was tiresome, it was inefficient and it made me mad as hell.

Fast forward twenty years. I’ve now moved from Caracas to sunny Orlando, Florida. I can tell y’all this: In comparison, your DMV was a walk in the park, ‘Murica. A slow, lumbering walk in the park, to be sure. But it was ten times more pleasant than what I endured.


The GF and I got to the first DMV one very bright Tuesday morning at 9 am. We didn’t make an appointment (already a novelty) because there’s no wi-fi where we’re staying, so it was easier to just show up. We were required to take the damn test, for which we did study (sort of), and get those licenses pronto. We got in line to the kiosk, which has a new system in which you put in your phone number and it sends you an SMS when it’s your turn. I put in my number, and seconds later I get the SMS:

“Your waiting time is between 180-210 minutes”.

My soul didn’t even have time to say goodbye.

While we’re waiting, I of course take in the people around me. About 90% of the people here are African-American, a few white people, at least one Brazilian. The youngest might be in his early twenties, the oldest might be around It’s 9 o’clock and every one looks like they’ve just dragged themselves out of bed. We just sit and fiddle with our phones thanking the Orange County tax collector’s office for the free wi-fi. If there were a coffee cart it wouldn’t be so bad. But there is none, and I’m starting to get antsy. I suggest we walk out and find the beverage of our salvation, and she obliges. We walk two blocks to a quickie mart, come right back. It’s only been an hour. I’m ready to lie down and sleep.

Actually, did I doze off? Because suddenly, it’s her turn! She goes, shows her documents, and before I know it, it’s my turn! Hooo boy… This is happening, folks! The clerk, a small, bulldog-faced woman whom I somehow manage to make smile, takes my papers, asks me a few questions, and instructs me to go take the test. No desk and right there in the open to all to see. I go to these huge computers on one side, and I’m a little offended that I have the only seat. What, do I look too old??? Anyhoo… The GF is there already. We’re taking it side by side, though she doesn’t notice till I swear a little under my breath. As you may know, you get a maximum of ten wrong answers; eleven, and you do not pass the written test. I won’t give you details, but let me share a bit of my mind.

Ok… let’s see… a double line, broken on the right, even on the other, means what now? Dammit I need another coffee… Ok, let’s skip this one. If a deer… A deer? You’re in Florida, you can’t… Oh wait, no, there are deer here, Hopefully I’ll get to see one when NO! FOCUS! Must not think Venezuelan, this place obeys the law, focus, you asshole, focus. The minimum distance for high beams is… 500 feet? Shit, it’s 100. How many is that? I CANNOT fail this shit, I…

And suddenly it says “Your time is up. You have passed with only five mistakes.”

Score!!! And she passed as well! (Also five!) The clerk that takes my case looks down at my results and says, “Wow… Very few pass at the first try. Congratulations.” She even gave me a full smile.

Two days later, it’s the road test time. Her appointment is at 10, mine’s at 10:15 (and yes, this time they suggest we make an appointment). So again, we plop on our chairs, make small talk, chit chat, watch the Avengers: Infinity War trailer. And then she’s off. While she’s out, my number gets called. I give my information, swear I’m not a danger to the United States, and walk out to wait for the GF to give back the car. While I’m waiting, a short but stocky African American woman with long dreads comes out, and looks around. Sees me, says good morning, keeps waiting. She has a clipboard, so I assume she’s the instructor, perhaps assigned to me. After about two minutes she looks at me, looks at her clipboard, and says, “Juan Rodriguez?”

–Yes, ma’am!
–I thought that face looked familiar! I saw it here (points at my Venezuelan license), saw it there…

Yeah, I liked her already.

Her name was Charlene, told me she had been there for quite some time. When she saw my license, she told me she had had experiences with Venezuelans before. I feel a slight cringe.

–I used to work as a driver and chaperone for those teenage cruises, y’know. Those birthday cruises? Man, it is amazing how drunk those girls can get! I told them, ‘You do not have to get that drunk! You’re young! You’re beautiful! There are men waiting outside the night clubs for girls like that!’ One night there was one who got out and there was this dude who just looked wrong, y’know? I told him to back off.

I knew the deal. It’s part of the reason why there are so many teen pregnancies in my country. Many times, these girls go to strict Catholic schools and stricter parents. One taste of freedom and they’re gone. I think of my GF’s eight-year-old, the one who calls me Bird Daddy. How will I handle the teenage years? I immediately change the subject.

–Speaking of which, bet you get a lot of nervous kids.
–I get a few, yeah.
–Must come nervous as hell.
She grins. I don’t know whether to feel relaxed or nervous. –A few. Most pass, though.
–That’s good to hear. Feels so weird, having to take my driver’s test again, thirty years after the last time. I feel eighteen.
–Well, you gotta obey the law.
–Yup. You come here, you hit the reset button.

I see the GF is still taking the test with a tall lanky guy, just like Larry, who’s scribbling on another board. He seems cool, but I can’t see her face. All I can do is wait and pray. When she passes us, she didn’t look up, so I tell Charlene if it’s ok if I go pick the car up. “I’m just waiting for you, man”, she said with a smile.

I go, and my GF’s face tells it all. “The guy is an asshole; I didn’t pass!”, she tells me.

My heart sank.

I pick up Charlene and she asks me if the GF passed. I said I didn’t ask but didn’t like the face. I didn’t want to jinx myself. She said something like “Oh dang it”, and proceeded to explain that her name was Charlene, that she will be my instructor, that she will not do anything to willfully make me fail. She asks me if I’m ready, I say yes, and off we go.

–You feel eighteen again?
–To be honest, I feel ten!

She laughs, and off we go.

She instructs me to make a three-point turn, which I now confess (in the first of two confessions I shall make today) I had only learned the name four days before. I did it correctly, but I forgot to put the blinkers. Then she asks me to back up, tells me I did ok, except:

–Are you on the double line?– she asked looking at me sideways.

I look over, see that yes, I am on the double line, know that’s a no-no, and answer: “I’m very, very close to it. Sorry”. And yes, sorry Charlene. A little fib.

Then it’s sudden stop, parking, backing up, parking on a slope, and…

–I hope your GF passed, ‘cause you did. Congratulations!

Oh YEAH baby! But I temper my enthusiasm. I drive back to the building to drop Charlene off.

–Well, welcome to the States. We do not like our President.
–Oh don’t worry, neither do I. Nor my own.

We let off some steam on the subject, and off she goes. My GF reschedules for the next day, proceeds to tell me her instructor was too strict. “He failed me because I was two inches away from the cones when I parked! I asked him if he spoke Spanish, and what did he answer? ‘I speak a little Arabic, if you want’!”

Yeah and if my dad had tits he’d be my mom, you asshole.

Next day comes, my spirits are high. Hers, not so much. She’s really nervous, so I’m trying to soothe her as best as I can. When it’s her turn, I’m torn between waiting inside and waiting out. I sit for like five minutes inside before going out.

She’s parked outside behind a van, driven by an Asian woman of about fifty and what I assume is her husband waiting for her. And Mr. I-speak-Arabic is tearing her a new one. Now it’s my GF’s heart who sank. “Oh God, it’s him again, I know it”, she said.

And I hear a rooster crow.

We both turn to see a very large rooster walking around, completely ignoring the humans who are staring bemusedly at him. He flaps his wings and crows again, then flies to land on the railing, crows again. He’s big, over a foot tall, with a fallen crest and a deep red plumage. I try to get near him to take a picture, but he’s having none of it, and a security guard comes out and tells me “No pictures”.

–I’m sorry! But… it’s a rooster!

The guard cracks a grin. –Yeah, that’s our mascot.

The mood has definitely relaxed. And to top it all off, Charlene comes out. I mouth her name to my GF with the enthusiasm of a teenage girl seeing Harry Styles. She’ll be ok!

–Hello miss Charlene– I say.

She looks at me, doesn’t recognize me. –Oh, did I… Did I test you?
–Yes, yesterday. Venezuela, remember?
–Oh right, right. You’re taking it again?
–Nope–. I point. –My GF.
–I did you yesterday and now I’m doing her?
–That’s right!

She turned away and smiled in wonder. My GF brought over the car, and just when Charlene was getting ready to start her inspection, a cardinal, my stepdaughter’s favorite bird, landed in the bush beside her. The nine-year-old in me pointed excitedly, in such a way that even stone-faced Charlene turned and smiled. Now I knew she would be ok!

You can guess what happened: she passed! –I don’t understand that guy, you didn’t make a single mistake– Charlene told my GF.
–I don’t understand either–, she told her in her broken English.
–That guy…

When we were driving away, satisfied with our DMV experience, I was touched by one last thing Charlene told my GF.

–Your man’s something… I’m not used to people remembering me.