For the interrogation, a lady with a clipboard asked politely if I would "step away" from the window so she could interrogate my mother about what happened when she drove her car into the wall of the carpet store. When she mistook the gas for the brake pedal. I sat on a bench -- just within earshot of my mother referring repeatedly to the brake as the "clutch." What she learned to drive on what, a good, 75 years ago? I wanted to pinch her. I could swear, above all the raucous of sorry waiting souls in this enormous DMV room, I could actually hear the mad scribbling of Clipboard Lady. "So you weren't driving a standard then." "What standard? I was driving my car." Read more >






















