I Hate the MTO

by Curious Canuck

OK, at long last, I present for your reading pleasure, the UPDATE talked about for days between broken promises of actually sitting down to write it. The reason that I kept delaying was simply because I wanted to wait for a resolution before writing down the story that would cause the people who write the “Murphy’s Law” books consider putting in a chapter just for me. At the very least give me a dedication in the front cover with a note telling me how sorry they are that I got beaten over the head with their last book.

However, I can delay no longer. The time has come to put it all down for peace and posterity before it is wiped from my mind. Or it is time to put it all down to wipe my posterior with and get piece of mind. Your choice.

First, some background. In fact, let’s go way, way back. May 11, 1992. My 16th birthday. The day that teenagers look forward to for years. The day of… freedom. You see, in Ontario at that time, the driving age was 16. In grade 10, nothing was cooler than driving to school in your parent’s second car. Well, except for the poor saps with a birthday after June. They would have to wait until Grade 11. Suckers. Where was I? Oh. Right. May 11, 1992. After writing the exam for to get my Firearm Acquisition Certification, I had one more trip to make. (Yes, I grew up in Northern Ontario, where the men were hunters, and the women were hunted. You drank, smoked, drove a pick up, and owned a rifle. Sometimes you did it all at once. Your sisters had to be fast runners. I’m sure some of you rednecks know the drill…) Anyway, off I went with my newly given License to Kill to the Ministry of Transportation to get my Need for Speed papers.

Nothing like killin’, killin’ fast, and doing it while listening to tunes pounding so loud that the subwoofer is actually propelling the car down the road. Ahh the memories. Too bad they aren’t real. I mean, the license you get on your 16th is a Learner’s Permit. You have to drive with a licensed driver (ie: Mom or Dad) in the car until you do your road test. But really, how cool would you be in you dad’s 1981 Buick with the rusted out floor and AM stereo pumping anyway? Of course, back then, that didn’t matter. You had wheels, man. Girls that wouldn’t talk to you before now wanted nothing more than to climb into your rusted out chick-mobile. It was about the freedom. It was about the step up to cool. It was about… well it was just about everything. That piece of paper was POWER.

Of course, when you are sixteen you are also a bit short sighted in some regards. What was that Rod Stewart song? “I wish that I knew what I know now, when I was younger…..” You see, I never did take my road test that year. There was no point. I didn’t really have a need to at the time, and truth be told, I was doing a lot of other things such as fighting world hunger, negotiating an Irish peace treaty, and offering insights into the intricacies of String Theory and Quantum Mechanics, while keeping a 99% course average, and maintaining my #1 ranking in the upcoming NHL Draft.

OK, truth be told, I was busy being a carefree kid. Besides, all my other friends had a car, so I didn’t need one. I was happy with doing West Side Story, Cross Country running, and applying for a Rotary Youth Exchange. Why waste time with a silly road test?

Fast forward to August 25, 1993. Your hero in this tale, loyal reader, was all packed up and ready to go away on the aforementioned student exchange. Various psychological tests passed, as well as learning the “I’m from Canada, eh?” handbook and other outings to meet other exchange students had prepared me for my year long trip to the exotic… Belgium. Boarding the plane for the first leg of my journey, and thinking of those people I wouldn’t be seeing for a year, I recall looking out the window. On the tarmac below the small plane was a large insect scurrying around. I also remember thinking “You should get a car if you are going to be on asphalt, little bug.” My thoughts then turned to “I should have renewed my license and done the road test in case I need to drive in Europe”. [violating one of the Rotary rules - though I won’t get into that here. The exchange is another story in itself. Maybe a novel.] “Oh well”, I thought, “I’ll take care of that on my return.”

August, 1994. Ahh.. back in Canada. Time to go renew my license. Off to the MTO (Ministry of Transportation, Ontario) I go. There I was informed that there was a new “graduated” licensing program in place. This meant that my old expired license was invalid, and that I would have to begin this process from scratch.

Quick aside: Graduated licensing involves you getting your license over 3 stages. G1 (first stage) is the same as a Learner’s Permit where you need a legal driver with you, no alcohol in your system, and no driving at night. After completing a road test, you move on to G2. You can drive on your own, even at night, still no booze. After you do another road test which involves parallel parking a 15 foot car in a 12 foot space, and avoiding at least 2 out of 3 cyclists, you “graduate” to a full “G” license.

So, I had to start at G1 by writing another knowledge test, and completing a vision test. Oh, and pay $100. Well, “F--- that” I thought. I’ll wait and do it later. Again, 18 year olds sometimes are STUPID and do not see the value in being proactive.

April, 1998. Your hero is in 3rd year university now, and still without license for which his friends and girlfriend (also license-less by the way) ridicule him over. So off I go to the wonderful MTO again, with everyone I know in tow to be there in case I fail my written exam. Taunt early, taunt often, I guess. Well, miracle of miracles, I pass. I get my mug shot done (which I am taunted for by default - though for someone so clearly white pasty Scottish, it IS funny how I look like an Iraqi double agent). Yay. G1. And with that, a one year wait before I can try for a G2. Fair enough.

March, 1999. My roommate calls from the bar, and she begs me to get in a cab and go pick her up from the bar and drive back her car so she could get to work the next morning. As I obviously had nothing better to do at 2am before working the next morning at 8am, I call the cab from my sleep induced fog and go get her. As we pull into the driveway, in her brilliant display of forethought she looks over at me and says “Oh, do you mind putting some gas in the car? It’s almost empty and I do not want to run out on the way to work.” OOOOOOOkayyyy. It isn’t like we passed 15 gas stations on the way home you twit. It’s not like you can’t just stop at one of the gas stations you will pass on the way to work in the morning. In any case, in a fit of stupidity, I decide to do it for her. So, at close to 3am by this point, I pull into the gas bar and put in $10 worth of gas. Of my own money. After spending $20 on the cab. Of which she “promises” to pay me back. (Which she does the next day, I have to admit). Anyway, as I pull away from the pumps and into the parking lot of the mall where I was, I check for traffic before turning on the road. I put on my signal light to turn, and as I do, I realize in the parking lot that the headlights are no longer on. So, flick, on they go. I pull out into the nonexistent traffic and continue home. Flashing lights in the mirror. Where are those coming from? Wait. For me? There must be some mistake. Or a random RIDE program to see if I had been drinking. With little choice, your hero pulls over to the side, and Officer Dickhead saunters up to the rolled down window. “So, I see you finally figured out where your headlights were”, he says with a demeanor that necessitates a new dictionary entry for him under ‘Power Tripping F*ck Nugget Asshole’. Not even a ‘hello, how are you’ before the upcoming screwing I’m feeling I am about to receive. “Yes, sir”, I reply nicely. “Glad I caught it in the parking lot before I pulled out into the street. You can’t be too careful.”

Well, apparently according to Officer Dickhead, headlights have to be on when the car is put in gear, no matter where you are. So being in a parking lot wasn’t an excuse. He says “You are getting a ticket. License and registration”. No please even. This guy is really being a dick. And now, loyal reader, I am screwed. If you happen to remember earlier in this tale, I had not yet reached my 1 year in order to get the G2 license, and I am driving the car on my own. As I hand over the license, the officer looks at it and glowers at me. “G1???” the thunderous voice yells at me in the still of night standing 1 foot away from me.

“Well, you see sir, I was picking my drunken friend’s car up from the bar so she didn’t have to drive.” (Ok, slight misrepresentation to the officer, but I was nervous. This guy would eat Mike Tyson’s children.)

“There is NO excuse for driving alone with a G1. You are getting another ticket. Now park the car in this lot and call a cab to go the rest of the way home.” I go back later and get the car and drive it home before roomie wakes up.

Damnit. I try to do something nice, and I get f*cked up the ass for doing it. I decide not to tell roomie about it since I am a bit embarrassed for some reason, though thinking back, I probably could have gotten my ticket paid. I put said ticket in a drawer to take care of later, where I promptly forget about it until….

March, 2003. Over the last few years, I have moved around a lot, including to a new city. In all this time, I still have not had the need of a car, so there has been no update on the license issue. However, Good Friend and Good Friend Wife are moving out to British Columbia on the west coast for a new job. They are a two car couple, but in Vancouver, one can only afford to be a single car couple. So, Good Friend realizes 2 days before the big move that he still needs to sell The Saturn. The man is brilliant, but foresight is not his forté. Not that I am the person to judge him on that. Anyway, Good Friend after going to 3 dealers of which 2 said they do not need cars, and one insultingly offered $300, gives up. (The book value on the car is $3000) So, as a final wedding present to Good Friend by Best Man (your hero), I offer him $300 for the car even though I am not licensed, and don’t need it. But why let a dealer get a sweet deal. I can take advantage of Good Friend’s laziness too. Good Friend agrees, and goes to Vancouver to live 300 dollars richer.

Ah, new car owner. For the first time, your hero has a vehicle. Of course, there are Things To Take Care Of before I can drive the car. First thing is to register the car. So, off again I go to the MTO.

The MTO. What a great place. In this city of 1,000,000 people, they have decided to make your driving experience easier by splitting the department into 3 sections, each of which is in a different building about 4000 kilometers apart. So, after finding out that Bank Street was the wrong one to be in (including a coma inducing hour long wait in line) off I go to the correct MTO on the other end of the city to register my car. Another 45 minutes in line.

“Sorry sir, we cannot register your car. Your license is suspended.”

WHAT???

OK... so apparently, the forgotten ticket carried an untold 30 day suspension. Fair enough. But this was over 3 YEARS ago. However, you actually have to TURN IN your license for 30 days until the suspension can be lifted (and pay their ‘user friendly’ $100 reinstatement fee). Also, the unpaid fine must be cleared up. I am upset, but I understand. After all, though Officer Dickhead was a ‘Power Tripping F*ck Nugget Asshole’ it was still my fault the ticket was not paid. So, I sigh softly and decide that I may as well turn over the license, wait the 30 days, and go from there. So, I hand the lady my license. “Oh, sorry” she says. “We don’t do that here. You have to do that at Bank Street.” ARGH!!!

Still March, 2003.

About two weeks into my suspension, I realize that as of April 9, my license is set to expire. If it expires, I have to start my graduated licensing all over again from scratch. No problem though. All I have to do is go to the MTO to pay the $50 in order to renew.

Ah, Bank Street MTO. How I have come to loathe your existence. Nice Coworker gives me a ride over on our lunch break in order to get this done. I walk in and pull out a number from the Spool of Waiting. Number 011. Eleven. That isn’t bad. I casually glance up at the “Current Number Being Serviced” sign and see “092”. I know, loyal reader. You are thinking “That’s impossible!” Welcome to the paradox and timewarp that is the waiting at the MTO.

After I get over my initial shock I realize two things. 1) Obviously this ticker rolls over and resets at 001 again. 2) The number being served is NOT ‘92’. It is ‘092’. Which COULD mean that I have to wait through over 900 people in line. I have a friend that went to the MTO 8 years ago. I haven’t heard from him since. Now I know why. In any case, I decide that it HAS to roll over at 100 and reset to 001. Otherwise there are 900 people or so missing from line and I’ll get bumped up. (Though I imagine I would still have to sit through them calling out “202? Is 202 here? Last call for 202. 203? Is 203 here? Last call for 203…..998? Is 998 here? Last call for 998…..”)

In any case, about 3 years (or 30 minutes) later, the counter indeed resets to 001. I actually heard a loud sigh from someone else. Apparently I wasn’t the only one worried. About 30 minutes after that ‘011’ is called. That’s me!

Now, before I go any further, I bet some of you are wondering why I had not actually done this online. To you I say stop stirring the pot. Just enjoy the story of my life and disregard the plot holes. That, and I had tried to do so, but apparently with a suspended license you cannot do ANYTHING on the MTO’s website.

So, up I go to the front of the counter to meet The Most Charming Lady Ever*. (* - if by charming you mean someone who looks like their lifetime donut delivery service was about 1 hour late. Not a happy camper.) Anyway, I explain that I need to renew my license. No problem says she.

“May I have your license sir?”

“Certainly. In fact, I am so efficient that your office already is holding it.”

-Blank stare-

-crickets chirp-

-“I’m sorry, all I meant was that your office is holding my license since it is suspended.”

“Oh, well sorry, SIR (she’s getting even more likable in that oh so sexy sarcastic tone), but we will NOT renew a license that is suspended for any reason.”

“I see. Well in that case what are my options?”

“Your only option would be to book a road test, and graduate to Level 2.”

(seething.. please do not talk to me like I am 5 years old) “Well ok then. And I will be able to do this today?”

“Yes, SIR.”

“Thank you. I would like to do that then please.”

“Sir, if you would have read the sign when you came in you would see that that service is NOT offered at our location and you have to go to WALKLEY STREET.”

ARGH. Not only do I have to go wait in another line, but I got the pleasure of dealing with a sarcastic, mean lady having the IQ of a fencepost, and hygiene that would make Homer J Simpson look like Mr. Clean. Such fun.

In any case, lunch for that day being officially over, we head back to work with nothing for our efforts other than an hour of our life we will never get back.

The next day, 2003. Your hero heads out yet again to go to the MTO, this time to the third, and fantastically convenient 3rd location on Walkley. Line up wait is shorter, although there is a rather confusing numbering system based on not only numbers but letters of the alphabet. They said that this is to track selected services more easily, but I think it is a government run test to see if humans are smarter than mice running through mazes. The lineup progressed in roughly the following order:

A45, then E11, A46, B01, E12, C88, D89.

Can you see how EFFICIENT this is? Not only can you NOT tell how long of a wait you might have, but it also allows you to spend some wonderful, happy, quality time with fellow citizens. When the above number order occurred, the lobby was treated to the following debate, which turned into a screaming match between 2 ladies.

MTO voice: “Number (static .. garble)…89 please”

Two ladies, neither one looking at the ticker proceed to counter

“I’m 89.”

“No, I’m 89.”

“I think you are mistaken. Here is my number ticket.”

“Listen, b*tch, I am 89. Here is MY ticket.”

“What did you call me????”

I will spare you the gory details other than to say that it almost came to blows, and things were said that would make a sailor blush. Eventually someone stepped in and cleared up the confusion by pointing to the electronic sign displaying the letter/number combination. I say eventually because it took at least a full minute. If you have ever waited at the MTO, you know just how long each passing minute gets.

Eventually, after order was restored and people went back to their boring waiting room lives, I was called up.

“I’d like to book a road test, please.”

“License number?”

“W7(..snip..)11”

“Ah. This license is currently suspended, correct?”

“Yes sir.”

“I am sorry, I cannot help you until the suspension is over.”

“Excuse me?” (I MUST have misheard)

“Yes sir, you cannot book a test until the suspension is served.”

ARGH!

“OK”, says I, “when the suspension is over and my license expired, can I book the road test then? Or will I have to start this whole graduated licensing thing over again?”

“You can book the test right away.”

“ARE YOU SURE?”

“Yes, sir, I promise.”

“Because the last woman….”

“I promise you sir, you can book a test, at that time we will give you a temporary license to tide you over until the day of the test.”

“Thank you.”

April 9, 2003 (give or take a day). Time to go to Bank Street to pay the user friendly $100 to lift the suspension, and then to Walkley to book the test. More “Fun in Waiting Rooms” to be had. I know I have talked about the fun waiting in line a couple of times to this point, so I will not bore you with the agonizing details of this particular trip, other than to state that young mothers with 6 month old twins should be allowed to go to the front of the line. Especially when said twins are obviously in great agony judging by their wailing. I personally think that said babies should NOT come into the building and should in fact stay at home, but I do not wish to incur the wrath of busy moms out there. So, let’s send them to the front of the line. Everyone is happier in the long run, I think. Five minutes extra in waiting to save my sanity is a good deal, in my humble opinion.

In any case, after about 15 minutes in Walkley (about time things start to go better!), I get up to the counter to book my test, and to get my temporary license until said road test.

“I’m sorry, sir, but the closest opening is not until the 28th at 4:30pm. Is that ok?”

“Sure is. Book it.” Only 2 weeks away, when I was expecting 6 months, hell, sign me up!

Wow. Things are starting to finally get under control. I might actually be out from under the vengeful fist of the MTO.

Mid April, 2003. A conversation between me and a friend:

Friend: “Why, sure, I can let you use my car for the test. No big deal at all. I’ll even come get you.”

Your hero: “Thanks so much. You are saving my skin, and I really appreciate it.”

Friend: “Not a problem at all”.

April 28, 2003: 2:30pm. A conversation between me and the aforementioned friend:

Friend: “I am so sorry to do this to you, but I have to bail. Excuse-blah blah blah- excuse….”

Your hero: “Umm….”

Now what in the hell can I do? I am at work, and I cannot get hold of his neck to wring it, nor can I get a hold of other friends and ring them up. What do I do?

Luckily, I remembered that one of our consultants from out of town both owes me a favour, and has a shiny new renal car at his disposal. A quick phone call, and all is arranged. Stress level lowered. I have a car.

April 28, 2003: 4:30pm.

“I’m sorry sir, rental cars are not allowed to be used on a road test.”

“ARGHBOGGLEARGH GAH”

“I’m sorry sir, can you repeat that?”

After what must have looked like I was simultaneously turning into the Incredible Hulk and trying to pass a bowling ball, the nice man behind the counter said that he would reschedule me at no charge and extend the license until then. I am not sure if agreed so quickly since it was office closing time and he wanted rid of me, or because he was genuinely scared for his life. In either case, I accepted. And only a few days later to boot. I guess spaces open up for psychos. I recommend this approach heartily.

May 2, 2003: 12:00pm

One of my wonderful coworkers who treats me like the son she never had had insisted earlier in the week that I use her car for the test. A nice sporty Grand Am. Perfect. Off we go to get my test done. Surprisingly, the clouds and rain clear up while driving there, and the sun shines down for the first time in a couple of days. This is a Good Sign. When we get to the MTO (Walkley in case you were keeping track), I walk up to the counter, and after filling out a mercifully short form, I am told that the Driving Test Guy is ready, and we can get started. This is also a Good Sign.

I will not bore you with all of the details of the test, and how well I parallel parked (though I did it perfectly), but I must tell you about riding with Driving Test Guy. The whole time we were out there, I tried to chat with him.

“Nice weather finally, eh?”

“Turn right at the lights.”

“Wow, they are really putting up that apartment complex quickly.”

“Go straight at the 4-way stop.”

“Watching the hockey playoffs at all?”

“Pull over here and park as if you were on a hill.”

I was determined to get some sort of smile or reaction out of this guy. I failed throughout the entire test. He didn’t utter one word other than to give driving directions. When I pulled into park, he handed me my “score sheet”.

Your hero: “I was cited for ‘driving too slow’?”

Driving Test Guy: “Yes. Go give this to the counter up front.”

Your hero: “Did I pass?”

Driving Test Guy: “Yes.”

Your hero: “And no matter what happens now, you cannot take that away?”

Driving Test Guy: “No.” (puzzled look) “Why?”

Your hero: “Well, I just wanted you to be rest assured that never in my life will I again be penalized for driving too slowly.”

Driving Test Guy: (A slow smile spreads across his face... a stifled laugh) “Have a great day.”

Your hero: “You too.”

I win! I made him laugh! Wow. Am I smiling at the MTO building? This time I don’t even mind the one hour wait in line to get my picture retaken for my license. The saga is almost over. The only thing left is to register The Saturn. How hard can that be?

May 9, 2003. Lunchtime. Nicest day of the year thus far.

Today is FINALLY the day. After doing all of the Things To Take Care Of, including the whole license saga, and getting my car insured, I am off to pay exorbitant taxes to the MTO in order to get my car on the road. Now, in order to get your car plated for the road, it has to pass a “safety”, which basically means that a certified mechanic has to declare it “safe to drive”. Also needed is an Emissions Test to make sure that your car does not pollute everything in sight. Now, because those two things require one’s car to be driven to a garage, if the car does not already have plates, the MTO will issue a “Trip Permit” in order that you can have 10 days to get all that necessary stuff done. Then you can get your real plates. Great system, right?

Now, I head in, and after a 5 minute wait in line at the Carling location MTO (not bad!) I get up to the front desk. I present the change of ownership papers (which should be pointed out contain the purchase price receipt, and the date of transfer in large easy to read printing). Also, I show my license, and proof of insurance for the vehicle. I explain to the lady that there is no “safety” certificate, nor Emissions Test certificate yet, and that I will require a Trip Permit in order to get those done. Not a problem says she. I write her a cheque for the taxes due on The Saturn, and she prints out the new ownership papers. Everything is in order.

Your hero: “So, now that that is taken care of, I only need that trip permit and off I go. Thanks so much for being so fast.”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “Oh, umm, you can’t have one.”

Your hero: “I’m sorry, can you say that again?”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “You can’t have one. You see, it has been more than 6 days since you bought the car, therefore a trip permit cannot be issued UNTIL you get the safety and emissions test.”

Your hero: “So you are saying that when you told me that there was no problem earlier, you lied?”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “I did not lie sir, I forgot to mention that earlier when I noticed the date.”

Your hero: “OK, then reverse the ownership, and I will get the date changed on the other copy by the original owner, thereby solving the dilemma and we can start again.” (I was only going to go around the corner and change it myself, but they didn’t need to know that.)

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot reverse the ownership after it has occurred.”

Your hero: “Then WHY didn’t you TELL ME THEN?”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “As I said sir, I forgot. I am sorry.”

Your hero: “You forgot? And because you forgot, what am I supposed to do? I need that permit to get the safety.”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “Well, I am afraid you will have to get it towed to the garage or have a mechanic come to you.”

Your hero (seething by this point): “I see. Well in that case (trying not to jump over the counter to throttle her), may I ask why this policy is in place?

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “It is in place to ensure that we get cars on the road more quickly.”

Your hero (too flabbergasted at the logic and her stupidity to speak): “Mmmm hmmm. I think I will leave now.”

Low IQ’d MTO Sloth: “Have a wonderful weekend, sir!”

That was it. The last straw. Someone is going to now get shot. I have been screwed over one too many times. I have had it. I am going to snap. All I have to do is go buy the gun, and she is going to be riddled with bullets. ARGH!

Later that day:

Gun store owner: “I am sorry sir, your Firearms Acquisition Certificate is expired…….”