The many Hells of the DMV
Ben Harper just got to the point in “Better Way (War Mix)” where he screams “…Everyone is in the fight of their lives…” when through the headphones I heard:
“Hey, don’t mean to bother you, but aren’t you the guy from TV?”
The local field office for the California Department of Motor Vehicles – the dreaded DMV – is a catch basin of humanity. Mostly the lower rungs, folks who don’t have access to computers to get things like registration renewals and new plates done without physically going to the only field office in a city of 90,000 people.
(The only other place to witness something similar would place me squarely in the aisles of Wal-Marts – and unless I’m in the Midwest with my dad, you will not find my ass in Wal-Marts for any fucking reason.)
Interspersed with the guys in dirty wife-beater T-shirts (seriously men, if you have all the arm definition of a sausage, DO NOT wear a sleeveless T-Shirt) and large-bottomed women in black stretch pants (no, they do not flatter the cottage cheese that is your ass) are a few seemingly regular men and women – hey, like me - who had to make the DMV pilgrimage to take care of something that couldn’t be done online (like a new photograph for myself).
I was trapped. I had finished all my business, they had printed a receipt, but the computers at the home office in Sacramento went down. They had to get confirmation that the photo went through – and the receipt for the license went through (“Even though we have your check in the drawer, and we have a receipt printed, I can’t let you go yet, if you wouldn’t mind sitting, we’ll get it as soon as we can,” the nice lady at the counter said).
Two long rows of chairs. Each chair physically touched the other, and meant it was more than likely that you would make contact with the person in the next seat.
(I slathered myself in hand sanitizer after, I surly did.)
The question came from a tall, skinny guy, dressed in a dress shirt that was snow-white once, a yellow tie and navy dress slacks that were worn enough as to make the fabric shine at the thighs.
The black dress shoes were old and scuffed; his beard was black, flecked with gray, and somewhat unkempt. He had blue eyes.
“Really, sorry to bother you, but you look really familiar.”
Two years ago, we had a cross-promotion with the local television station. Three reporters did three-minute segments; mine ran between 5:30 and 6 a.m. Fridays (and people were amazed that I would get up to do them that early; through the magic of television, we shot them before the 5 p.m. broadcast on Thursdays).
“I’m the outdoors guy at the paper.”
“Oh, yeah, you do a great job. I wish you still did the TV thing with (TV personality). That was really good.”
He went on to tell me that he was a minister. Instantly, I mentioned that (TV personality) and I were very involved in the Catholic church (I sensed he was getting ready to “witness” my ass).
He kept talking (even though I still had my left earbud in my ear, and the iPod shuffled to “Born to Run” by the Boss) and I nodded patiently – and cut my glance to the nice counter lady, pleading with my eyes to hurry the fuck up – and tried to keep the small talk to a minimum.
The guy on my left looked like a smaller version of The Chief from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest;” and yes, if I had a stick of Juicy Fruit, I would have been tempted to give it to him. Dirty gray hair in a ponytail, dirty jeans, grimy T-shirt and a denim jacket, frayed at the cuffs. Black Chuck Taylor All-Stars on his feet.
“I knew I knew you,” he said through yellow, picket-fence teeth. “You’re the guy from TV.”
“By way of the newspaper.”
“I used to work there, in the back,” he said. “Until I keeled over. Fucking place. Worse insurance I’ve ever had.”
I close my eyes for an instant and open them and let everything go out-of-focus.
The Replacements, “Can’t Hardly Wait” filled my left ear; all I can think is I can hardly wait to get the fuck out of the DMV.
And that’s when I notice it.
The mushroomy, wet smell of shit.
It emanated from The Chief.
He smelled like shit. Like he washed his clothing with a couple of turds tucked into the pockets.
And I seriously consider asking Mr. Minister for a prayer of expedience.
I remain quiet and both Mr. Minister and The Chief grow silent. I slip the right earbud in as Liz Phair’s “Stratford-On-Guy” began. The nice counter lady waved me over. The receipt, as well as my new picture, has been received at the home office.
Goodbye’s are said all around.
“Hope to catch you on TV again,” Mr. Minister said.
Total elapsed time in the DMV field office: 84 minutes.
Time I will never get back in my life.
“Hey, don’t mean to bother you, but aren’t you the guy from TV?”
The local field office for the California Department of Motor Vehicles – the dreaded DMV – is a catch basin of humanity. Mostly the lower rungs, folks who don’t have access to computers to get things like registration renewals and new plates done without physically going to the only field office in a city of 90,000 people.
(The only other place to witness something similar would place me squarely in the aisles of Wal-Marts – and unless I’m in the Midwest with my dad, you will not find my ass in Wal-Marts for any fucking reason.)
Interspersed with the guys in dirty wife-beater T-shirts (seriously men, if you have all the arm definition of a sausage, DO NOT wear a sleeveless T-Shirt) and large-bottomed women in black stretch pants (no, they do not flatter the cottage cheese that is your ass) are a few seemingly regular men and women – hey, like me - who had to make the DMV pilgrimage to take care of something that couldn’t be done online (like a new photograph for myself).
I was trapped. I had finished all my business, they had printed a receipt, but the computers at the home office in Sacramento went down. They had to get confirmation that the photo went through – and the receipt for the license went through (“Even though we have your check in the drawer, and we have a receipt printed, I can’t let you go yet, if you wouldn’t mind sitting, we’ll get it as soon as we can,” the nice lady at the counter said).
Two long rows of chairs. Each chair physically touched the other, and meant it was more than likely that you would make contact with the person in the next seat.
(I slathered myself in hand sanitizer after, I surly did.)
The question came from a tall, skinny guy, dressed in a dress shirt that was snow-white once, a yellow tie and navy dress slacks that were worn enough as to make the fabric shine at the thighs.
The black dress shoes were old and scuffed; his beard was black, flecked with gray, and somewhat unkempt. He had blue eyes.
“Really, sorry to bother you, but you look really familiar.”
Two years ago, we had a cross-promotion with the local television station. Three reporters did three-minute segments; mine ran between 5:30 and 6 a.m. Fridays (and people were amazed that I would get up to do them that early; through the magic of television, we shot them before the 5 p.m. broadcast on Thursdays).
“I’m the outdoors guy at the paper.”
“Oh, yeah, you do a great job. I wish you still did the TV thing with (TV personality). That was really good.”
He went on to tell me that he was a minister. Instantly, I mentioned that (TV personality) and I were very involved in the Catholic church (I sensed he was getting ready to “witness” my ass).
He kept talking (even though I still had my left earbud in my ear, and the iPod shuffled to “Born to Run” by the Boss) and I nodded patiently – and cut my glance to the nice counter lady, pleading with my eyes to hurry the fuck up – and tried to keep the small talk to a minimum.
The guy on my left looked like a smaller version of The Chief from “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest;” and yes, if I had a stick of Juicy Fruit, I would have been tempted to give it to him. Dirty gray hair in a ponytail, dirty jeans, grimy T-shirt and a denim jacket, frayed at the cuffs. Black Chuck Taylor All-Stars on his feet.
“I knew I knew you,” he said through yellow, picket-fence teeth. “You’re the guy from TV.”
“By way of the newspaper.”
“I used to work there, in the back,” he said. “Until I keeled over. Fucking place. Worse insurance I’ve ever had.”
I close my eyes for an instant and open them and let everything go out-of-focus.
The Replacements, “Can’t Hardly Wait” filled my left ear; all I can think is I can hardly wait to get the fuck out of the DMV.
And that’s when I notice it.
The mushroomy, wet smell of shit.
It emanated from The Chief.
He smelled like shit. Like he washed his clothing with a couple of turds tucked into the pockets.
And I seriously consider asking Mr. Minister for a prayer of expedience.
I remain quiet and both Mr. Minister and The Chief grow silent. I slip the right earbud in as Liz Phair’s “Stratford-On-Guy” began. The nice counter lady waved me over. The receipt, as well as my new picture, has been received at the home office.
Goodbye’s are said all around.
“Hope to catch you on TV again,” Mr. Minister said.
Total elapsed time in the DMV field office: 84 minutes.
Time I will never get back in my life.
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