Picking up where we left off,
last time...everyone has a memory of their first encounter with the DMV.
I guess the experience varies from state to state, but I’m
pretty sure it was the same angst producing scenario for all of us.
If you’re of my generation, give or take a decade or two,
you probably recall the anxiety of taking your written test.
Not you’re driving test…you’re written test.
You know, the one where they give you this little driver’s
manual to study from cover to cover, just to make certain that before you even look
at a road with intent, you understand what a yellow light signifies.
Sure, you tell yourself, everyone knows these silly little
rules; at least everyone who has ever ridden in a car.
Green light, go.
Red light, stop.
Yellow light, speed up so you can beat the red light that’s
about to come on.
And doesn’t everyone know that the proper distance to follow
a vehicle, while driving down a 55 mph
highway, at 75 mph, is as close as you need to be in order for the loser to
hear your horn as you try to pass them.
So you figure it’s a pretty intuitive test.
Needless to say, many a learner’s permit seeker was foiled
by this tactic, simply by not knowing the inventor of the Stop Sign and the
inspiration for its octagonal design.
Hint: It has nothing to do with the Amish…but you have to
admit, that was a pretty good guess.
The other constant at the DMV, back then, were long
lines…long lines everywhere.
There was even a line just to find out what line you were
supposed to be on.
Once you've made it to the proper line and subsequent window,
for your specific requirements, you were greeted by a standard, government
issued woman who could have been anywhere from 25 to 75 years old, if you had
to judge by appearance only.
Fortunately, when you factored in the amount of time it took
for them to sharpen their pencil, and how often they stopped to lick their
finger while pursuing the three pages of forms you handed in, you could make a pretty
good guess.
Throw in the quality of condescension emoted as they peered
over their half glasses, which I believe were also mandatory Government Issue,
and you could narrow it down even more.
Not that the age of this person had anything at all to do with
the proceedings at hand, but after waiting on line, for what seemed like
several weeks, hoping against hope that you were actually on the right line,
your mind needed some sort of distraction, other than wondering how long a
person could survive without urinating.
But, as I said last time…that was then…and things are better
now.
Now, when you walk into the new 21st Century DMV,
there is no sign at all of multiple long lines.
Now, when you walk through the door, the first thing you
encounter is just ONE long line, snaking back and forth through a maze of what
appear to be cattle restraints.
Of course, your first thought—mostly because you think of
yourself as special and above such common treatment—is…this can’t be the line for me….
But alas, it is, judging by the sign posted right in front
of you that states, ALL patrons must report to the Information Center upon
arrival.
And even though your well-defended sense of denial side
tells your brain…there must be another
Center for MY Information…without such a line…your pragmatic side knows
this to be false, and glumly shuffles it’s feet into the corral of the near undead.
Immediately, you’re hit with the smell of anxiety and the
odor of way too many wool coats.
Someone, a few dozen places ahead of you, yet only a few
feet away, due to the line’s snaking effect, says…“Well, at least it’s moving…” which is true, but still, you can’t
shake the sound of Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” meandering through your head
as you creep forward in microscopic increments.
By the second turn, you amuse yourself by studying the faces
of other new arrivals as they enter the room, battling their own defense
mechanisms, trying desperately to convince themselves there is something
they’re missing, as well.
By the third turn, you find yourself thinking about how easy
it would be to just duck under the restraints and run maniacally to your car screaming
“I am not a number…I’m a free man!!!!”
But are you really willing to just rashly toss away those
first two turns?
And what about those behind you; is this really the example
you want to send?
By the fourth turn, you can actually spy the faces of the “Next Ones” to be called.
It’s a look of hunger about to be sated; a look that infuses
you with something you had thought lost…lost, what seems like turns ago….
Hope….
By the fifth turn, you allow yourself a small smile. Perhaps
it’s merely delirium setting in, but you hear yourself saying, aloud, to anyone
who can still listen…“Well, at least it’s
moving…”
Until finally, standing, toes behind the line, you hear
those magic word…“Next!”
And as you step forward, past the line of magic dreams,
toward the information window, you can’t help but turn back, not to gloat, but
to offer a sign of faith to those who are still without.
It can happen to
you…and it will…in its time it will.
“NEXT!”
You step proudly to the window, greeted not by some
humorless old woman of ambiguous origin, but by a smiling, non-bifocaled, young
woman who deftly sorts through your pre-filled forms, stamps them and politely asks
you to step in front of the camera in order to have your updated photo ID
taken.
There you stand, eyes wide open, smile, frozen on your face,
awaiting the tell-tale flash, whereupon you are then handed back your now “approved”
paperwork, given a number…and told to take a seat while you wait for your number to
be called.
“Wait” again,
being the operative word.
Undeterred, you accept your documents with profuse thanks
and appreciation, as if you had just passed the most stringent challenge
possible and were just rewarded one of humanity’s highest honors.
Fueled by the adrenaline of fulfillment, you walk, almost
nimbly, over to a row of church like pews and find a seat, encouraged by the
fact that the cobwebs hanging from the others are merely of the light and wispy
variety.
Great…it can’t be too
much longer, you think.
All around you, the room fills with the pleasant, reassuring
voice of a faceless woman, calling faceless numbers to the next open service
window.
Lighted message
boards display a stacked row of numbers designed to instill you with optimism
that indeed, progress is being made.
And, yes, that’s just how it appears.
F 86
F87
F88
F89
All stacked neatly in front of your own, F93.
It shouldn’t be too
much more of a wait….
Until the comforting woman announces customer F90 please report to Window 11,
Ahhhhhh…only three more
to go….
Which is followed by a call for…Customer B67.
B67!
B67!
What happened to
F91…F92…and me F93!!!!!!
B67!
And now you understand why the church pews actually have
kneelers.
However, in time—time now the operative word—F93 is called
in the dulcet tone of the faceless woman and you lumber off—knees badly stiffened
from all the kneeling—to your designated window.
You, again, hand in your neatly pre-prepared forms; step on
the foot prints stenciled on the floor and read the lowest line on the eye
chart, which you imagine spells out…theresnothingucandosucker.
Afterwards, you shuffle off towards the exit, past a group
of even more arriving hopefuls, and again, try to muster a sign of encouragement,
just to let them know…it will be okay.
Unfortunately, most of your facial muscles have now numbed,
and your attempt to smile only produces a painful grimace, which provides no
comfort at all.
You reach the parking lot, surprised that the sun is still
shining, stop and find yourself dwelling in one final desperate thought….
There was that movie a while back, “March of the Penguins” about that down on its luck Marching Band
from the Galapagos that couldn’t get booked for any of the BIG parades, mostly
because they kept bumping into one another with their instruments; not to
mention the drummers couldn’t reach over the top of their drums. Plus, their Penguin
Marching Band hats basically swallowed them up from head to toe…or what passes
for a Penguin’s toe.
And of course, there were those cute, twin little furball
chicks, who I think were named…well, let’s face it; I have no idea what they
were named. And I wasn’t about to repeat what I thought I heard, because who knows how my interpretation would be perceived by a Penguin.
