Ezzard Charles Drive

After dropping out of high school three times, I sat for my GED test on a cold day in January in 2000.  My class would graduate the following May, but I wanted to get a jump on things.  So I signed up for the test, didn’t study a lick and figured I’d be just fine.

The only test center at that time was in the middle of the ghetto downtown.  I’m no stranger to hoods, so the location didn’t bother me any.  I just wanted to get in, sit for the exam and get on with my day.  I had trips to plan, things to do.  You know, everything a seventeen year old girl normally does with her life.

The morning of my test, I treated myself to some hot cocoa from that company that sells overpriced coffee and has a green logo.  I was also wearing a fresh white hoodie.  Folks who know me know I’m not the most graceful at times, so wearing white was a kind of silent message I wanted to send to the Universe at large.  Not that I intended to spill anything on myself, but more that I was ready to take on whatever the day would offer.

So fresh hoodie and a cup of sweet, sweet cocoa in hand, I drove from Clifton downtown.  Sipping the sugar, listening to some nonsense, (likely Tupac, though it could have been UGK or 36 Mafia) and not really thinking about what the test was going to entail. 

I turned off of Ezzard Charles and found a side street to park the beater I was driving.  Put the car in park and reached for my cocoa.  The lid must’ve been put on wrong because it spilled all down my Nautica hoodie.  What the fuck.  I swore, cursing the world, but resolved to make the best of it.  Blotted it with another hoodie from my back seat, finished my drink and got out of the car.  Signed in to the test center, the only white girl there, with a giant stain on her once-fresh white hoodie. 

The first section was supposed to last three hours, and the second two more.  I finished the first section in ninety minutes, turned it in and was told I had to wait for the remainder.  Ok fine, I’ll just go to my car, I thought.  Searched in my bag for my keys and realized I’d left them in my damn car.  For a while as a youngster, I was notoriously locking my keys in my car.  Fuck.  Like fuck of all fucks.  So I tell the test admin that I’d locked my keys in my car, and asked if she could call someone.  She looked at me with disdain but called the police nonetheless.  And then told me that I couldn’t leave until I’d finished my second section of the test, handing me a thick booklet.  Worried that someone was going to break into my car, I raced through it, it was English, literature and comprehension, and turned it in in thirty five minutes.  The admin asked if I was sure I was finished.  Well obviously I’m finished, I just turned it in, is what I wanted to say, but didn’t. She sighed and took it.

Outside, there was an officer waiting at the end of the street.  He asked me if I’d locked my keys in my car, and then opened it with one of those magic things that pops the lock from the window jam.  I thanked him profusely, got in and drove off.  For some reason, that moment has stuck with me during my adult life.  The cop was gracious and kind, and I’m still grateful that he came to my aid.  He could have just as easily ignored the call. I could have had to break into my own car (which I ended up doing a few months later when I (yet again) locked my keys in the ignition).  He was human, and kind.

Four months later I received my results – aced it J