yustyoking

            Hier bist die Reisen af der Raumschiffs Enterprise. Das fümf-jahrishe Auftrag, die neues Welten erforschen und die unberührte Gebiete besteigen, die nie ein Mensch zuvor gesehen hat.

                                                       *                                              

            The goddam Department of Motor Vehicles !

            The DMV is living up to its reputation.

            Mom has a blue handicap sticker. Since she’s always afraid she’ll forget to hang it in the windshield, it would be 1,000 times more convenient to have a handicap license plate.

            Stephanie Rosenthal, who lived next door, got a handicap plate. Steph’ died ten years ago, but her hubby Roger still uses handicap parking. He’s a wowzer, nobody can tell Roger anything.

            It’s not like we’re re-inventing the wheel here.

            I call the DMV at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday. “We are experiencing unusually high call volume. Our wait times are in excess of 20 minutes. We are not taking more calls at this time. Try calling on Wednesday or Thursday morning for faster service.”

            Why does this set my teeth on edge? Because the angry DMV fines everyone $5 if they insist on driving down to the office. “Save $5! Use the handy DMV website, the U.S. mail or telephone the DMV at…” say all their announcements.

            Yeah. Right.

            Bastards.

            So I get up at 8 a.m. on Wednesday and call. Once I connect, the first thing I hear— the first recording— is the automated woman’s voice telling me, “We at the DMV can only discuss your record with you over the phone. If you’re calling for someone else, we will not be able to access that person’s record or discuss that person’s record with you… Your wait time is 13 minutes.”

            Followed by a recording of Tchaikovsky’s The 1812 Overture.

            I’m supposed to be grateful? They’re slamming the door in my face! It’s too early in the morning for Tchaikovsky. I hang up.

            The goddam DMV!

                                                       *

            I drive to the DMV. Police officers in immaculate white shirts, holstered guns riding their hips, eye me suspiciously. Their gold badges shine brightly. I, like, totally ignore them. A hundred customers, Latinos and Asians, sit on gray plastic chairs, clutching number slips.  A sign stipulates “No cell phone use,” but a dozen people are on their phones, all imparting the same message: “I’m on line at the DMV!”

            My wait time is six minutes. The room is enormous, the length of the building. The ceiling track lights give off a subtle buzz that jangles everyone’s nerves. School days, I have to bring a note from my momma authorizing me to get her new plates. 

            To their credit, the ladies are extremely helpful and fix me right up!

            “Does she still drive?” Ms. Spaulding, the attractive black employee behind the counter at “window number four” asks me.

            “Oh yes,” I blurt.

            “Did she sign this authorization herself?”

            “Oh yes,” I say, feeling like a broken record.   

            I still have to pay the $5 surcharge to renew the vehicle registration, although I don’t see how I could have gotten handicap plates and changed the registration on-line, over the phone or through the mail. Rules is rules, but some things don’t make sense.

                                                         *