Finally, Slominski administers the test and tells them they have 1 1/2 hours. Ten heads drop, and only pencil scribbles and deep breaths whisper over the shabby room's white noise.
Statham finishes the first half in a remarkable 25 minutes, and she's out the door for a Newport. As the rest of the pupils filter out over the next half hour, they discuss the questions with mixed anguish and delight. As they bounce true or false, multiple choice, and essay answers off one another, Allen realizes he's missed one, no two, answers. Then, at least three. After that, he's silent.
Finally, Keaton and Kashtanoff emerge with only enough time for an exhale and a cigarette before the second half. Keaton wipes the back of her neck and looks nervous. "I did all right, I maybe missed 10 or 15," she says. "I better pass this test or I'm going to be fired up this weekend."
Part 2 goes off like the first, except this is the applied-knowledge section of the exam, and Slominski hands out stacks of tickets, tow slips, and those obnoxious Day-Glo flier warnings that announce imminent tows. Again, Statham finishes first. As the others trickle out, they agree this half was straightforward but meticulous. Each zero had to be crossed, each comment box required the appropriate abbreviation.
When they return to the classroom after an hour lunch break, the trainees find Slominski red-inking their exams. Soon most huddle around her desk and watch as she tears through each page. A veteran checker walks through the room and asks Slominski how the class is faring. "They're trying to decide whether to breathe or not," she says.
The first to breathe is Statham, who nails 170 1/4 points. When Zebedee Nelson hears he's earned 178 points, he's immediately off to phone his wife and tell her the news. Twenty minutes later, seven have passed and Christos Konstantanidis, the former bank loan officer, is in the lead with 186 3/4 points. Only Allen, Keaton, and Kashtanoff are left.
Allen is clearly the favorite to fail among his classmates. Even Allen, who's angry with the others for crowding Slominski "like moths on a light bulb" as she grades his test, doesn't think he'll pass. Lavelle Richards, the class clown, recalls Allen's naps through lectures, affecting the voice of an Olympic announcer. "Did you see the poise on that triple head-bob? My God, there he goes again," he mocks.
Meanwhile, Keaton's left Earth. She's wound up tighter than a spring, snapping her fingers down the classroom aisle, grumbling that she's probably the only one who didn't pass the exam. Slominski tells Keaton to lighten up or leave the room.
When Allen's moths tell him that he's passed, he barely looks up from his newspaper. Slominski, however, is not silent. "I should have flunked you for attitude," she says. Allen begins to fire back. Slominski raises her voice. "No seriously Steve, you need to be a nicer person on the street. You better hope you never work for me," she says.
Next, Keaton's exam sits before Slominski. Racked with anxiety, Keaton's outside sucking down cigarettes. The moths are silent. Slominski finishes, and the new PCOs call Keaton into the room. Instead, Keaton looks through a portal in the door and asks if she passed. Konstantanidis gives a thumbs up. "Yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhh," she screams running down the aisle to claim the exam.
Five minutes later, and Kashtanoff has placed at the top of the class with 187 points. Richards reprimands him for not showing more enthusiasm. "Smile, you know you're happy," he says.
At last, they're out the door. They can relax over the weekend. After that, they'll be in uniform, on the street. There, the numerical codes and the homework will come to life. And so will the angry drivers.
But for each individual, there's much more to this job than parking tags and drivers' sneers. There's a promise: Allen's sure to find women to ogle -- Richards, rude motorists to vex with a ticket. Kashtanoff can "utilize" his communication skills for a shot at the upper management; Statham will know if this is the city job worth holding onto. Nelson will no doubt nobly step up to the challenge. And Keaton, well Keaton just needs some time to breathe.
Sure, to anyone with a set of wheels, the personality traits will vanish with a $25 ticket. That, however, is inherent to the job: The disgruntled motorist may call them meter maids, but for Slominski they've finally become PCOs.
