“Test Center Glamour Shots and the Road Ahead”

 

Today was… interesting.

I took a drive down to Fayetteville to knock out the New York State Auto Appraisers and Theft exam. Just saying that out loud feels like progress. Another step forward. Another state closer. But man, this one was a trip.

The testing center had a whole different energy compared to my last go-round. It was packed—full of tradespeople, mostly electricians, plumbers, and general contractors. You could tell by the mountain of binders, codebooks, and reference manuals they carried like school kids on the first day back. But get this—before they were even allowed to sit down, one of the staff had to flip through every book, page by page, to make sure there wasn’t anything they shouldn’t have in there. I’m not even sure what kind of spy-level cheats they’re worried about, but the place ran like a TSA checkpoint with a caffeine habit.

And speaking of security, this center wasn’t playing around. I had to turn my pockets inside out, roll up my sleeves, and even lift up my pant legs like I was being searched for smuggled flashcards. They waved a metal detector over me, peeked behind my ears, and gave a very serious three-minute speech about what my feet were allowed to do. Feet had to be flat on the floor. You could cross your legs—but only below the knee. Anything else, and you were flirting with disqualification.

There was no locker this time. Instead, everything I owned—keys, phone, wallet, dignity—went into this zippered security pouch that had to live on the back of my chair like some kind of chaperone.

Then came the glamour shot. Another photo for the state records, expertly taken somewhere between “sleep-deprived raccoon” and “sentient Idaho potato.” I really should start a collection of these; I’ve got enough for a gallery wall titled “Government-Issued Glamour: The Nate Collection.”

Once I was seated, the test experience itself was oddly familiar—but the content? Not so much.

I sat down at my assigned cubicle, punched in my info, and the test loaded right up. 100 scored questions and then a second, secret batch of “research” questions that didn’t count but definitely counted because they were just as confusing. None of them were anything like the sample questions I studied. In fact, I think “sample” is a generous term. More like “decoy.”

The phrasing was odd, the terminology was inconsistent, and some questions had multiple acceptable answers depending on which shop, region, or decade you learned the trade. One example: a question about the steel bar that runs inside car doors. Depending on who you ask or where you trained, that could be a side-impact beam, intrusion bar, safety reinforcement, or “that big metal thingy in the door.” All of those could technically be right, but the test wanted one—their one.

Thankfully, I’ve spent most of my life in and around auto body shops, and that practical knowledge was the only thing that got me through. No offense to the prep course, but the test hit like a pop quiz on the parts catalog for a car that hasn’t been built yet.

When I clicked the final button, there was no dramatic printer walk this time. Just a quiet message that said: “You passed.”

I sat back for a second, grinned, and let out a little mental hooray. Later in the car, an email rolled in with my actual score—89. Not that it matters once the license is issued. No one's going to be checking my transcript at the rental car counter.

But the day didn’t stop there. It was also the first official day of my next training module—this one way more technical. Some of the topics are comfortably in my wheelhouse; others are completely new terrain. I’ll take notes, stay sharp, and ask the right questions. I’ve come too far not to finish this the right way. I got to take my traveling show on the road and did the entire teams morning call in a barber school parking lot. I got to use my backpack officially. It has room for everything.

Every step forward—every test, class, long drive, and ridiculous photo—puts me closer to hitting the road for real. Closer to the new places, the roadside oddities, the diners, the dives, and the food I’ll have to apologize to my doctor (and Jamie) for eating.

When I took this job and started digging, I realized there wasn’t much out there about what this career path actually looks like—just a lot of vague promises and marketing. So maybe one day someone else who’s thinking about doing this kind of work will find this blog. And maybe it’ll help them decide whether it’s worth it. Truth be told, I may want to revisit this moment in time also, and I have enjoyed writing these little posts.

So if you’re reading this now, thanks for following along. And if you’re reading this later—nervous, unsure, wondering what comes next—stay the course. You probably got this too.