Musings of the DMV
Is there any better cross-section of America than the DMV?
Long known as a haven for lunacy and frustration, a bastion for lines and forms, the Department of Motor Vehicles is also a wonderful place to witness the variety of America. It is one of the few places left where everyone, young and old, rich and poor, beautiful and ugly, come together to share in the agony of bureaucracy.
My most recent visit was to obtain a record of my driving history. I arrived at the DMV at 9 am on a Saturday. I expected that I was there at a busy time, but it was early for me, especially on a weekend.
The place was packed. People were everywhere and the parking lot was filled with vultures, waiting to do whatever it took to grab the next available parking spot.
I thought to myself, "If I wanted to take a broad survey, this is where I would go." Everyone is represented here. I love the fact that a woman from affluent Wilton woman has to stand next to a dirty construction worker from downtown Norwalk. The Spanish-speaking couple is asking the short Italian man for help. If America is a melting pot, this is where the mixing happens.
I was working with a time limit (something you can never do at the DMV) and was hoping that I would be lucky enough to get through in an hour. Well, after I got through the first line, I had the paperwork, and a complete understanding of what I needed to fulfill for my obligations. Then the ticket came.
It's a simple thing. A pinkish ticket with a three digit number. 995. Okay. Where's the board? Okay. We're on 945. I'm screwed.
After ten minutes, the numbers had inched to 952. I was out. There was no way this was going to happen.
As soon as I leave the front door I hear screaming. The parking lot was still buzzing with people, but one woman was particularly livid. "You hit my car!" she repeatedly screamed. Her target was a man in a long SUV. Her car was a smaller one. They didn't make it around each other apparently and her rear corner was showing the paint from his car.
People were offering condolences and trying to calm the woman. Others were like prairie dogs, peering over parked cars, hoping for a Springer moment.
Is there anything more ironic than getting in an accident in the parking lot of the DMV?
In a sadistic way, I love the DMV. It enforces reality in our lives. But at the same time, it's the bane of our existence. Somewhere there needs to be a valley for the mountain's peak to seem high.
Long known as a haven for lunacy and frustration, a bastion for lines and forms, the Department of Motor Vehicles is also a wonderful place to witness the variety of America. It is one of the few places left where everyone, young and old, rich and poor, beautiful and ugly, come together to share in the agony of bureaucracy.
My most recent visit was to obtain a record of my driving history. I arrived at the DMV at 9 am on a Saturday. I expected that I was there at a busy time, but it was early for me, especially on a weekend.
The place was packed. People were everywhere and the parking lot was filled with vultures, waiting to do whatever it took to grab the next available parking spot.
I thought to myself, "If I wanted to take a broad survey, this is where I would go." Everyone is represented here. I love the fact that a woman from affluent Wilton woman has to stand next to a dirty construction worker from downtown Norwalk. The Spanish-speaking couple is asking the short Italian man for help. If America is a melting pot, this is where the mixing happens.
I was working with a time limit (something you can never do at the DMV) and was hoping that I would be lucky enough to get through in an hour. Well, after I got through the first line, I had the paperwork, and a complete understanding of what I needed to fulfill for my obligations. Then the ticket came.
It's a simple thing. A pinkish ticket with a three digit number. 995. Okay. Where's the board? Okay. We're on 945. I'm screwed.
After ten minutes, the numbers had inched to 952. I was out. There was no way this was going to happen.
As soon as I leave the front door I hear screaming. The parking lot was still buzzing with people, but one woman was particularly livid. "You hit my car!" she repeatedly screamed. Her target was a man in a long SUV. Her car was a smaller one. They didn't make it around each other apparently and her rear corner was showing the paint from his car.
People were offering condolences and trying to calm the woman. Others were like prairie dogs, peering over parked cars, hoping for a Springer moment.
Is there anything more ironic than getting in an accident in the parking lot of the DMV?
In a sadistic way, I love the DMV. It enforces reality in our lives. But at the same time, it's the bane of our existence. Somewhere there needs to be a valley for the mountain's peak to seem high.
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