Visit to the DMV

I received a notice in the mail. It indicated that my driver’s license would expire in two months on my birthday. I was required to renew. The notice went on to explain that the easy way to do this was to use the DMV online portal. That sounded good to me (the $52 fee did not sound so good, though).

On Friday afternoon I visited the web site and completed the online form, charge card in hand. I was already to pay and then it happened. I was met with a roadblock. A screen message informed me that something was wrong with my ‘driving record’ according to a national registry database. I must show up in person at the DMV. That sounded like fun.

Monday morning found me at the DMV, some 30 miles from home. There were about a thousand cars in the parking lot. I managed to find an open space in the lower lot. After a considerable uphill hike I passed through the front doors and into a lobby the size of Olneyville.

 I was looking for the second floor. Ahead of me was a staircase that was wider than Main Street in Keene, NH. I climbed. And climbed. And finally reached the summit where a second lobby was festooned with more signs than a street corner in a Three Stooges movie. I looked around for a travel agent, safari guide, or anyone who could direct me to the correct line. When the veil of confusion finally lifted from my aging eyes I spied this message: “Enter here first to take ticket & be directed to correct area”. I dutifully entered between the stanchions that led through a maze of robed switchbacks that would make any bank lobby designer envious. Since nobody was ahead of me (they had already traversed this route) I quickly arrived at the counter with the ticket machine (probably a leftover from the deli counter of a closed grocery store). The butcher, I mean clerk, on the other side of the counter asked me why I was visiting my DMV on this fine morning. I felt like making some smart remark about making a 60-mile round trip on a Monday morning because I was a great supporter of the petrol industry. Instead I fumbled for the computer printout that I had made when the registry computers disallowed me from renewing my driver’s license online. It contained a vague message that included the ominous explanation: “The national registry database has determined that there is a problem with your driving record. You will have to report in person to the main DMV office where this matter will be dealt with”.

I gave her the printout. She read it. She looked at me, a paunchy salt and pepper baby boomer on a temporary pass from the state of retirement. Her explanation came quickly: “You probably need to take an eye test and have a new photo taken. Here is your expedited ticket. You should be called in 10 minutes or less. When your number is called just report to the proper desk at the end of this hall.”What was I going to do with the overnight bag my wife had packed with several changes of clothes? Then there was the extra deposit to the checkbook to cover bail. I had already cancelled Wednesday morning breakfast at McDonald’s with my ham radio buddies. Oh well, I guess I could pass a vision test. I stood and waited for about six minutes. There were no available chairs. The 150 or so seats were all taken as were about another 200 standing room spots by the herd of hapless taxpayers who crowded the registry. I felt like an immigrant being processed on Ellis Island.My name was called and I reported to cubicle 12. The young lady on the other side of the counter (glass divider, small open slot … reminiscent of a prison visiting room) asked me to take a seat. I did. Now my chin barely cleared the countertop. We then had a discussion about low bid furniture and how ‘everybody comments on how short those chairs are’. It appears nobody has done anything about it. I’m sure those chairs made some campaign donator happy (“You won’t believe how I unloaded those chairs with the short legs. See, my cousin Vinny is a state senator….”). Well, we quickly completed the paperwork and I was sent on my way to the eye test man. He asked me to sign a disclaimer form that said that I had read some document. I had not read it. I told him so. He said “Just sign and hit ‘OK'”. I signed, passed my test, and got out of there.