There are no plants, no posters, no homey touches at the driver’s license bureau, just a few desks jammed together under the harsh glare of fluorescents, and seated behind them, in starchy uniforms and neckties, the examiners. The women examiners wear ties, too, though theirs are shorter than the men’s — either as a concession to fashion or evidence of the usual pecking order.
Still, they seem friendly enough, willing to kid around, make a teenager’s first road test less of an ordeal. But one stern-looking woman doesn’t join in the banter; indeed, she seems put off by it, as if smiling isn’t in the job description. Oh my God, my sixteen-year-old daughter whispers, I hope I don’t get her. The woman shuffles some papers, clears her throat. Next, she announces, like the Gestapo knocking at midnight.
