jennings rampage

And suddenly, a motorist.

When my brother stomped upstairs and breezed through the front door Friday morning around 8:30am, I knew he was going to act as an enabler for my hookey-playing. After all, he had been out to sea for eleven days, and we both had a lot of errands to run: to the bank to get the rent money, to the DMV to get new plates for the Purpulator and maybe even get me a learner’s permit, and to the post office to get the mailbox keys to the new apartment. I knew that if I weren’t there to gently nag, very little would have been done, so I rationalized away my need to go to work. Good thing I’m always thinking.

I was already up by this point because I needed to be lucid for a 9am phone interview with a major undisclosed consulting firm that was to consider me for an open analyst position. (The old cover letter actually landed me this particular interview, so go figure.) I took the call on speakerphone so Jeff could sit back and marvel at my mad interviewing skillz, and yes, the preliminary screening was no challenge. It ended with the satisfying metaphoric blowjob and an immediate invitation to interview at the office on Thursday afternoon, so there’s more work for me to be missing. But that’s all right, all I need to do is nail one more interview, and I’ll be all good. (Long-time readers: I clearly do not learn.)

With that out of the way and the first feather of the day in my cap, I got myself together and we hit the road. A quick montage: Scott and Jeff in a long line at the bank, Scott and Jeff at a local bar for a lunch of bar food and Jeff’s first legal beer in the continental U.S., Scott and Jeff at the rental office to pay the rent and stare at the secretary’s tits for a few minutes, Scott and Jeff at the post office to fill out the change of address forms and get the new mailbox key, Scott and Jeff back at the rental office for another look at those tits, Scott and Jeff arrive at the DMV in the Purpulator, fade music.

When we got to the DMV, the line was out the door to even get into the building. Jeff was ready to say fuck-it-all, but some skillful gentle nagging convinced him this was as good a time as any to take care of this. We were outside for about an hour, which passed quickly thanks to a pair of Lyndon LaRouche supporters who were evangelizing for a global system of maglev bullet trains as a solution to all the world’s problems. We took turns talking to them; I did my best to yes-and them, but they were just way too kooky. They lost me when they compared their proposal to FDR’s New Deal, and used the benefits of the space program as a point of comparison. They insisted that we should be on Mars by now, I insisted that manned space travel beyond the moon is completely silly until a propulsion system that doesn’t involve liquid fuel is developed. (That was a real crowd-pleaser: “You told him! Bustin’ out the liquid propulsion system, boy!”) In the end, we had to agree to disagree, and I took my complementary copy of The New Federalist in with me for the rest of the wait.

Jeff and I both took numbers, and Jeff’s was called after about ten minutes. He just needed new license plates, since his front plate was stolen for some reason (people are stupid). I wasn’t going to be called for another hour, so we sat around lamenting the sorry state of the Virginia DMV with those seated around us. (Woman on my left: “How long have you guys been here?” Me: “Oh, about an hour.” Woman: “I’ve been here since 10:30.” Me: “Well, if you knew you had been here longer, I don’t see why you felt like you needed to compete with me.”) She seemed worried that I intended to take the written driving test with no studying, but I wasn’t sweating it. In between her too-loud cell phone conversations, she talked endlessly about her seven children. (Her oldest failed the written test on his first try, hence the concern.) She took out a beat-up wallet-size photograph of the kids for me to take a look at. She held it so I could see it, I said “ah” or something similar, and she said that I could hold it. How long is appropriate for hanging on to a photograph that you don’t care about? I settled on ten seconds.

Just then, number D747 was called, and it was my turn after about two and a half hours of waiting. Shuffled around the paperwork, paid the fee, waited to take the test, missed only two (How closely can you follow behind an emergency vehicle with its sirens on? My answer: 250 ft. Correct answer: 500 ft. Unless otherwise posted, what is the speed limit in a business zone? My answer: 35 mph. Correct answer: 25 mph.), let the weariness of being at the DMV for three hours show in my photograph, and I finally had a license to learn how to drive a car. (Quick note: Virginia gives you the option of using your social security number as your driver’s license number. It’s a patently stupid thing to do. If your state gives you the option, under no circumstances consent to having your SSN printed on the same card as your name and address and picture.) I strolled out to the car, where my brother had long since been napping, brandishing my new photo ID, and Jeff immediately relinquished the driver’s seat. As I was backing out, I was a little too heavy on the brake, which caused Jeff to freak out and suggest that we try again when there was less traffic. Four feet of driving seemed sufficient to break in the permit.

We went for dinner at one of my new favorite places, the Applebees right next to the naval base. (Applebees is amusing enough on its own, but Navy Applebees is three times as hilarious.) Naturally, this was a chance for Jeff to enjoy some more legal drinks, and my first chance to show off my brand new license to learn how to drive a car. (Waitress: “Do you feel smarter now?” Me: “Yes.”) Then it was off to the Navy Exchange (think Wal-Mart with more Navy hilarity) to look for and not find license plate holders, and off to the Navy Package Store (think liquor store full of sailors) for Jeff’s first legal liquor purchase.

With all these important milestones in life under our belts, we returned home to rest up a bit before putting the original plan in motion: a celebration of Jeff’s 21st birthday at Bar Norfolk, a dance club downtown at the waterfront. Unfortunately, most of Jeff’s friends are still under 21, and since he was not willing to compromise his vision of not going to an 18-and-up club, it was just me and him. We had originally planned to take cabs back and forth to be safe, but for some reason that I never asked to have explained, Jeff decided to drive.

Long-time readers will no doubt recall my opinion of dance clubs; specifically, that I really hate them. But it was the boy’s 21st birthday celebration, so I was to do my best to have a good time and not give him more reason to believe that I’m a “drag,” which, in fact, I am. We parked the Purpulator at the top of a parking garage downtown around 10:30pm, walked across the pedestrian bridge to this meticulously organized complex of shopping and nightlife that seemed to appear suddenly out of some city planner’s wet dream. Bar Norfolk was exactly like every frat party that I graduated college specifically to get away from — all the requisite loud music and girls dancing on the bar and crowded dance floor and poorly-maintained bathrooms and dudes in their mid-to-late-20’s who haven’t yet grown out of binge drinking and packs of unattractive women vying for their attention. Not to sound better than these people or anything, but I was clearly better than them.

Despite this, I was having a pretty good time, thanks to a few Captain Morgan and Diet Cokes and a shot of tequila. I was getting drunk enough to ignore the pure forced honesty of the club environment, where all senses are deliberately dulled to encourage people to touch each other, which probably isn’t the most advantageous system for this particular author. You can only get implicitly rejected by so many unattractive women before you remember that, oh yeah, I have no business here. A loud club is no place for an insecure person — every knowing glance and laugh and nudge can only be interpreted as a cruel commentary. But the music was pretty good, and every dance floor needs a fat uncoordinated guy to ground everyone else, so I kept on dancing just to make a show of it for my brother so he couldn’t say I was ruining his night.

Jeff, however, decided this would be an opportune time to lose all control and repeat his Fleet Week performance, which ended with me carrying him up the steps of the Lorimer stop on the L train. (He may not need to know that his older brother’s friends from college could describe most of the same antics I saw tonight all over again through fresh eyes.) As it became more and more clear that the responsibility for driving home was falling to me, I started getting incredibly pissed off and anxious. I begged him to stop drinking, but he kept getting Corona after Corona, and found a remarkably unattractive woman to molest him on the dance floor. He was happy, I was not. Right around 1am, he gave me his keys. Our original plan was to leave at last call, but there was no way that I was going to have my first real driving experience fighting traffic out of a parking garage in downtown Norfolk, so I told him we were leaving at 1:30. He blew me off, and continued to do so, until I gave him fair warning that I was leaving. He said whatever, I told him I’d see him tomorrow, and I ditched Jeff and walked back to his car.

I was right about leaving early; I was the only one trying to leave the parking garage at that moment, which gave me plenty of margin for error (please don’t drink and drive). I started the car, checked all my mirrors, turned on my lights, backed out and headed down the ramp, getting my feel for the brake and the accelerator along the way. I realized that I had forgotten to buckle my seat belt before I got to the attendant’s booth, and I kept rolling down the wrong window to try to hand my ticket over and spent at least a minute fumbling to strap myself down. Left turn out of the garage to a light, another left turn onto Waterside Dr, and straight on to I-264 East. While I was on the on-ramp, I realized that it was really dark — I had only managed to turn on my parking lights. Note to self: two clicks for headlights.

I drove white-knuckled gripping the wheel far too tightly at ten and two, concentrating on staying in one lane at a time and maintaining my speed at 55, praying I wouldn’t be pulled over for still only having one plate. There was no one on the roads, naturally, since the bars were still open, and I had an easy time merging onto I-64 West and taking my exit and merging onto Chesapeake Blvd. Another easy time on an empty road, and I was really starting to get the hang of this driving thing — good thing I had the alcohol to ease my nerves (please don’t drink and drive). I parked far away from any other cars, went upstairs to my apartment, and exhaled. Figuring that Jeff would have to beg for a ride or catch a cab home, I jotted a note apologizing for ditching him and asking him not to wake me up, went to my room, locked the door, and went to bed.

Of course, I couldn’t fall asleep; after losing my mom and moving in with my brother, I’ve become quite good at worrying about him. All the unlikely possibilies ran through my head and I barely slept four hours before my alarm rang at 8am. No sign of Jeff. I got showered and dressed for work, absolutely sick to my stomach and a bundle of nerves. The phone rang at 9am — I jumped at it, but it was George, the dude who takes me to work. He wanted to make sure I was coming today, so I gave him the short version of the story and told him that I needed to stay home in case Jeff called and needed me. So I changed into sweats and sat down with a tall glass of water and tried to calm down by watching M*A*S*H. Finally, the phone rang around 10:30am — Jeff sounded terrible, but he had spent the night with the ugly chick who was molesting him. He needed me to come pick him up in Hampton, about fifteen minutes away. More quasi-legal driving.

I scribbled down the directions from Mapquest, got dressed, grabbed my brother’s keys and hopped in the Purpulator. It was a little too sunny for someone as photosensitive as I seemed to be, and there was a bit more traffic than I would have preferred for this little trip. Still, I managed to get on I-64 West, avoiding the giant mail truck as I merged onto the highway. The routine was the same: concentrate on staying in one lane and maintaining my speed, which was hard to do in the Hampton Roads Tunnel, where I dropped down to 35 mph at one point. This was not a business zone, so I sped up quickly to do my best to not look like an elderly woman. The windows were fogging up, so I pressed buttons until the defroster came on, and nearly made a wrong turn coming off the interstate off-ramp. But I did miss my first turn on the streets of Hampton, so I had to turn around in heavy traffic, and was “waved in” for the first time; my right hand was too busy clenching the wheel to wave back. But I did find the girl’s apartment, parked the car, and met my brother as he was walking out. My trial-by-fire finally over, I tossed him his keys and let him drive home.

On the way home, I marveled at how well I had done with all this emergency driving, and Jeff was suitably unimpressed, still pleased with himself for ending his extended dry spell with meaningless bar sex. (Me: “So, did you do her?” Jeff: “Oh yeah. Three times. I think I put it in her butt, but I don’t remember. Wait… no, I didn’t put it in her butt. But I could have.”) I told him how worried I was about him, he said he would have called if he knew. He was more worried about his car, just to remain consistent with his already-developed character.

Never again with this kid, not until he gets over the fun and excitement of binge drinking. I can’t separate my need to protect my little brother from his need for someone to go out and have a good time with, and I also really hate dance clubs. But at least my fear of driving is pretty-well licked. Twenty-eight days until I get my real license.