test
in the basement of a government
building.
dark and dank,
with
nuclear fallout shelter
signs still on
the walls.
it's the painting
and wallcovering exam
that you must take
to be
licensed
in the state of Virginia.
your renewal time is up.
despite forty years
of being a contractor
they insist
you take it or never again
pick up a brush,
or sheet of wallpaper to hang.
you put your belongings
into a locker.
no phones,
no pens or paper, no books,
no hats worn,
no cheat sheets allowed
written on your arms.
you have no contact with the outside
world.
you have to wash your hands
for twenty minutes
in the bathroom down the hall
before entering the locked
test room door.
mandatory.
the kid in charge hits a button
and the door opens.
you find your numbered cubicle
and sit down
on the hard plastic chair.
there's a calculator
on the desk
a scratch pad, and
an old computer from the dark
ages,
right after the discovery
of the abacus.
forty minutes later, you're done.
but you have two hours to work on it.
so you go over
the answers two or three more times.
finally, ten minutes
later, you leave.
the kid at the front gives you your
report card.
luckily you've passed.
you open the locker, gather up
your belongings,
put on your paint splattered hat
and off you go again,
with ladders clanging
on top of your truck.
No comments:
Post a Comment