Everyone, despite their disposition, has some sort of task that they dread completing more than any other mundane mission. Some fear public speaking, others tremble at the mere mention of the dentist’s chair. For me the specter of spending an afternoon at The Department of Motor Vehicles amounts to purgatory (or worse) on earth.
At age seven I first experienced the horrors of the DMV when accompanying my Mom who was renewing her license. In Long Island, New York (where I spent my formative years) there was one DMV location for every 728,000 people, the vast majority of whom seemed to be present on the day Mom, my sisters and I braved the gauntlet.
We arrived at 6:45 a.m. to find hoards of equally distressed motorists huddled by the entrance. The doors opened at 7:00 a.m. A man with a distinctively bad hair piece peddled newspapers and coffee as the cattle line coursed through the lobby. My younger sister Sally seemed to be transfixed by the man with the toupee, trying to discern whether his hair was real or was the growth from some kind of fur bearing critter which had found a warn nesting place. She continued to shuffle along in line, mesmerized and curiously entertained.
Time seemed to stand still as we inched our way towards the front of the line. For children, remaining poised in such a situation is nearly impossible. Whether it was the DMV, the carpet store or the wallpaper store, it didn’t take long until I slipped into a catatonic state of boredom. Weighed down by the monotony, I began to lose control of my body, eventually slumping to floor, a listless lump of despondency. Mom, not amused by this behavior, cast a searing, menacing glare in my direction, yet not even the scowl we lovingly referred to as “The Tiger Stare,” could alter my supine form.
Over the years, my experiences with the DMV remained much the same as those I had endured during my youth; however, advances in technology have somewhat changed the ambiance. Plastic chairs have replaced the lines and drivers are now summoned to a specific window by an ultra-calm electronic voice. Progress is always a positive thing, yet sometimes innovation creates other challenges.
Following my latest probationary driving period (there have been several), I had some business to take care of at the DMV, and was provided with a computer generated number (B184) and proceeded to wait. At first I was a bit tense as the female voice methodically called numbers. On and on she droned “A245, C993, D559, B177” every so often sneaking in a rogue number like “Q227” which created some nervous and puzzled faces in the waiting area. Hypnotized by the rhythm of her patter I fell deeply asleep, my number still clasped firmly in my hand. Startled by a wailing baby (a staple of any DMV visit), I awoke to hear “B197 please proceed to window number twelve.” “B197! I gasped, I missed my call!” Crestfallen, I was forced to repeat the process and start all over again.
Recently, my friend Stephanie found herself returning to the DMV three times in the same day and was issued a new number for each trip. On her fourth go around they did not require her to have yet another ticket and waived her through to the window. Stephanie suspects that they were perhaps trying to keep her from getting BINGO. She might be right.
For the past eight months my son Will has been mounting a steadfast campaign for a new vehicle. Several times a day I would receive text messages with photos of Jeeps attached as he staged his multimedia attack. I am a firm believer that text messaging is an anti-parental device used to confound an older generation by the use of technology. Have you ever tried arguing with your kid through text messaging? It just doesn’t work. By the time you have a snappy comeback formulated in your head you receive yet another text piling on the first message. Most adults cannot type on their phones fast enough to defend their position. It’s kind of like trying to have a conversation with auctioneer; every time you try to speak the price goes up!
Defeated and beaten down, I eventually surrendered and helped Will buy the vehicle of his dreams, knowing that a trip to my least favorite place was imminent.
Yesterday, we all ventured down to the new DMV location at Valley Point. Documentation in hand, Will would commence his lifelong relationship with the closest thing to Hell this side of it. To the credit of the extremely polite and helpful people who work at the DMV, the stagnation was kept at a tolerable level, although the security guard did insist that I refrain from lying down on the floor and whining with boredom.
Old habits are hard to break I guess.
By Jon Kaufman [email protected]