At the DMV

Just picked up a second-hand Toyota to replace the old Voyager my wife was driving. Rather than schedule an appointment, I decided to go wait in line at the Hawthorne DMV. (I wanted to get the car registered and insured today, so she could drive it tomorrow.)

When I got there, the lines weren’t too bad. They seem to be more organized than the last time I was here a couple years ago. I got my number and found a seat with a view of the monitor so I could stare at the numbers. B369 just got called, only twenty to go till mine.

The DMV is a great place to go if you’re a people watcher. There’s a Hispanic guy next to me with his 4-yr. old son. The kid is having a great time, playing on the floor with some coins he’s found. He sees I am looking at him, so he shows off, charging at his father like a wrestler, yelling out something in Spanish. The man puts up his arms in mock defense. “Tough guy, hey?” I comment to the man. He laughs, and tickles the boy.

A middle-aged black man sits down in front of me. He has bloodshot eyes, and smells like whiskey and cigarettes. There is a tumor of some sort growing on the back of his neck. He should see a doctor about that.

A man holding a girl about two years old sits down next to the guy in front. A little Hispanic boy, maybe three years old, runs up, kisses the girl, and runs away to his father, who is standing on the other side of the room talking to a woman. The little girl looks shocked; her father just laughs. That boy is gonna be trouble for the ladies when he grows up.

A young black woman dressed to kill in a tight knit top and a miniskirt walks by, turning more than a few heads. Her eyes are kinda glassy though, and she smells of cannabis. (How anyone can even think of going to the DMV stoned is beyond me.) She has a seat in the back row, and pulls a magazine out of her purse to pass the time.

I look up at the window, notice a sign I hadn’t seen before: “All payments must be by cash or check only. No credit cards accepted.” Shit! I never carry checks any more; I was counting on using my debit card. I’ll have to run home and get a check. I ask the clerk if they can save my number, knowing what the answer will be. “If you can make it back before they call it, otherwise you’ll have to take a new one.”

I hurry home, get a check, and return to the DMV. I look at the monitor: B394, I’m holding B389. I stand in line to get a new number, resigned to my fate. I take a seat close to where I was before.

A thin blonde teenage girl walks in, going to take the test for her license, no doubt. She’s a couple steps ahead of a middle-aged woman, probably her mother. She looks like she’s trying to be cool, doesn’t want to be seen with her mom, but she’s nervous about being here. The two of them end up sitting together across from the testing area.

There is a guy in a Stephen Hawking type wheelchair at the counter, talking with the clerk. An older bald man is with him, maybe his father. He takes a clipboard from the clerk, hands it to the guy in the wheelchair; then sticks a pen in his mouth. He bites down on the pen and moves his head to sign the paper. That’s gotta be rough, being a quadriplegic. I guess I should be thankful. No matter how many hassles I seem to have right now, I’m sure my life is much easier than his.

A few minutes later my number is called. The woman behind the counter is very efficient. I hand over the papers, pay my fee, and soon I’m on my way. Now all I gotta do is fax a copy of the registration to my insurance guy, and I’m set. I guess the next time I need to register a car I should make an appointment, but this wasn’t all that bad. And it did give me something to write about.