I believe I’ve found the heart of America. This magnificent place represents all that is good and bad, harmonious and chaotic, virile and limp, ketchup and mayonnaise-y about our mighty nation. It is the zenith, the pinnacle, and several other words that mean ‘top’ that I can’t think of right now, of our progress as a people.
I’m speaking of course, of the DMV.
I had to go in last Friday to renew my License to Ki- errr . . . Driver’s License. Yes, my Driver’s License. That thing you need to y’know, drive.
NOTE: I am definitely not a secret agent of any stripe. I do not and never will have fantastic adventures while romancing gorgeous women, all the while maintaining the façade of a humble game designer. And my watch does not contain a miniature nuclear reactor. The fact that I have no hair on my left arm is simply a coincidence.
“What?” you may be saying. “How is the DMV the heart of America?”
Simple. DMV’s are big, you can’t find parking, they’re crowded, they smell slightly off, the seats are uncomfortable, the workers are often surly, and there’s a line for everything. However, at the end of the day, stuff gets done. It may not be pretty or efficient, but it mostly works.
And besides that, DMVs are a grand melting pot. I had an elderly gentleman dozing off on one side of me, a young mom with three kids behind me, a nicely dressed woman with a Gucci purse two seats ahead, two teenagers making out three rows over and a guy in an Elvis suit on the other side of the room. Everyone, young or old, male or female, rich or poor, pompadored or . . . er . . . not, has to go in and wait their turn just like everyone else.
Now, I may be suffering PTSD from my 3-hour wait (or maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome), but I felt a connection with my fellow citizens. We were all tired, frustrated, bored, and in the case of the guy four seats in front of me, stoned out of our minds. I could empathize with the kids taking their driving tests, with the guy on his cell, and with the woman doing her nails.
Well, not because she was doing her nails. I practice the ancient art of ‘bite them off when they get too long,’ so no. I empathized with her because she too was stuck in a dank building on the first really nice day in about a month, along with all the other poor bastards who had to be there as well.
We all suffered together. As Americans.
Actually, I just realized that I won’t have to go back to the DMV for another five years or so. Sweet! Microcosm of America or not, it’s a sucky place to spend an afternoon.
Cheers,
-Jason
Showing posts with label DMV. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DMV. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, March 21, 2008
A Quest: Part 2
I moved to stand beside a tall man with dark hair. “Hail and well met, fellow adventurer!” I cried (yet not too loudly). “What noble quest brings you to these hallowed halls?”
He made no answer, becoming suddenly engrossed in a pamphlet. Likewise, the woman to my right began texting vigorously, her thumbs darting like short, fat snakes. Strangely enough, it seemed that all the patrons of the DMV near me became quickly consumed in their own matters, leaving me to wait in silence.
At long last, the numbers upon the wall matched mine own and I marched proudly to the open window, my paperwork in hand.
“Greetings, aged crone!” I called out.
“What?” replied the person behind the window, whose nametag read ‘Bruce.’
“It is no import, person of indeterminate gender! I have ventured forth from the lands of Redmond at behest of the most noble DMV to register my pickup!”
“Right. Do you have the paperwork?”
“Absolutely! Allow me to-“
“Just hand it over.”
I do so, though the tone of this ‘Bruce’ leaves much to be desired. Bruce commences to input the necessary data, his or her fingers dancing like drunken, wrinkled elves upon the keys.
“What’s the make of your vehicle?”
“Why, it was forged in the Unending Fire by the master smiths of Great Nippon!“
Bruce gazed evenly at me for a moment, a brow arched to suggest either a deep understanding of my words or to subtly suggest he knew not of what I quoth.
“I don’t have an ‘Unending Fire’ option,” he finally said.
“Most strange! I would have thought that all lands were known in the great halls of the DMV!” I made a sweeping gesture, which narrowly missed hitting a small woman of Asian descent at the window nearest mine own.
Bruce did rub his or her eyes. “Perhaps you could tell me the name of the smith who forged your pickup?”
“Of course!” After a brief consultation with my paperwork, which bore many strange and foreign words, I found the name I sought. “Toyota” I answered proudly. “A name most befitting a truck of such stature!”
“$63, please.”
My checkbook I did open, to reveal a check which bore a picture of kittens sporting merrily with a ball of string. Upon this I scrawled the required amount, which I slid to Bruce of Indeterminate Gender. More arcane devilry happened behind the window, as Bruce’s fingers flitted upon the keys. At long last, a machine unlike any I had beheld did spit forth a piece of paper, which Bruce slid to me.
“There you go, sir. You’re registration is updated.”
I held the paper up to the light, so that I could better behold the runes inscribed upon it. “Truly, a most portent spell must be inscribed upon this parchment! How, pray tell, would one such as I gain access to the magic it holds?”
Bruce did sigh, a mighty sigh that did fog the window betwixt us. “Put it in your glove compartment. It’s your proof of registration if you get pulled over.”
“Verily, a most potent enchantment indeed!” I bowed. “Many thanks, Bruce of the DMV! May you one day learn in which restroom you belong!”
Bruce did smile. “Please go.”
“To work!” I cried and leapt for the door. Outside, a cool breeze blew across my countenance and I felt suddenly renewed, rejuvenated, refreshed and other words beginning with ‘R.’ I realized I had finished the Quest and gained valuable experience.
“Ding!” I shouted, before dashing towards my most noble pickup and whatever new adventures awaited.
Cheers,
-Jason
He made no answer, becoming suddenly engrossed in a pamphlet. Likewise, the woman to my right began texting vigorously, her thumbs darting like short, fat snakes. Strangely enough, it seemed that all the patrons of the DMV near me became quickly consumed in their own matters, leaving me to wait in silence.
At long last, the numbers upon the wall matched mine own and I marched proudly to the open window, my paperwork in hand.
“Greetings, aged crone!” I called out.
“What?” replied the person behind the window, whose nametag read ‘Bruce.’
“It is no import, person of indeterminate gender! I have ventured forth from the lands of Redmond at behest of the most noble DMV to register my pickup!”
“Right. Do you have the paperwork?”
“Absolutely! Allow me to-“
“Just hand it over.”
I do so, though the tone of this ‘Bruce’ leaves much to be desired. Bruce commences to input the necessary data, his or her fingers dancing like drunken, wrinkled elves upon the keys.
“What’s the make of your vehicle?”
“Why, it was forged in the Unending Fire by the master smiths of Great Nippon!“
Bruce gazed evenly at me for a moment, a brow arched to suggest either a deep understanding of my words or to subtly suggest he knew not of what I quoth.
“I don’t have an ‘Unending Fire’ option,” he finally said.
“Most strange! I would have thought that all lands were known in the great halls of the DMV!” I made a sweeping gesture, which narrowly missed hitting a small woman of Asian descent at the window nearest mine own.
Bruce did rub his or her eyes. “Perhaps you could tell me the name of the smith who forged your pickup?”
“Of course!” After a brief consultation with my paperwork, which bore many strange and foreign words, I found the name I sought. “Toyota” I answered proudly. “A name most befitting a truck of such stature!”
“$63, please.”
My checkbook I did open, to reveal a check which bore a picture of kittens sporting merrily with a ball of string. Upon this I scrawled the required amount, which I slid to Bruce of Indeterminate Gender. More arcane devilry happened behind the window, as Bruce’s fingers flitted upon the keys. At long last, a machine unlike any I had beheld did spit forth a piece of paper, which Bruce slid to me.
“There you go, sir. You’re registration is updated.”
I held the paper up to the light, so that I could better behold the runes inscribed upon it. “Truly, a most portent spell must be inscribed upon this parchment! How, pray tell, would one such as I gain access to the magic it holds?”
Bruce did sigh, a mighty sigh that did fog the window betwixt us. “Put it in your glove compartment. It’s your proof of registration if you get pulled over.”
“Verily, a most potent enchantment indeed!” I bowed. “Many thanks, Bruce of the DMV! May you one day learn in which restroom you belong!”
Bruce did smile. “Please go.”
“To work!” I cried and leapt for the door. Outside, a cool breeze blew across my countenance and I felt suddenly renewed, rejuvenated, refreshed and other words beginning with ‘R.’ I realized I had finished the Quest and gained valuable experience.
“Ding!” I shouted, before dashing towards my most noble pickup and whatever new adventures awaited.
Cheers,
-Jason
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
A Quest: Part 1
‘Twas but a fortnight ago that unto me a quest did come. It appeared as if by magic in a box, of which only I possessed the key. Upon gazing upon the sealed envelope, my heart did soar, for I knew adventure awaited inside.
Upon opening the envelope, I did find a missive addressed to me from a place called the DMV. Registration was required, lest my vehicle, a noble pickup of few dents and possessing a good radio, be declared remiss in the eyes of the law.
“Huzzah!” I shouted, startling the portly gentleman to my left, as he himself gazed upon his letters. “At last,” quoth I. “A quest worthy of one such as myself!” The gentleman edged away, yet I pretended not to notice.
“Huzzah!” I shouted again, noticing the Value Pac of coupons. “Dungbutter!” came next, as I opened my bill of credit, yet that is another story.
To my supervisor I did fly the next day, with news of my quest. “Steve!” I did cry. “To the DMV I must go!”
“Please stop shouting,” he replied. “Fine, just shoot me an email.”
“Verily! It shall be in your inbox in mere moments!”
An email was drafted, nay, forged, and sent forthwith to Steve the Managerial, so that he knew well my plan. And then I was off, descending by elevator into the very bowels of the parking garage where my pickup did wait, gleaming primer-gray in the darkness.
The engine sparked to life with the turning of the One True Key. Four cylinders whined in unison, like a gang of children begging for sweets, and I was off. Many miles were driven, many gears shifted, many songs sung off-key. At long last, I arrived at the DMV and maneuvered my truck betwixt the lines of parking, and then securing my paperwork, exited with a joyous cry.
Across the lot I bounded, upon the sidewalk I leapt, past the mailbox I galumphed, and found myself before the DMV. “Catnuts!” escaped my lips, for inside the fortress waited a veritable throng of fellow adventurers, each clutching a numbered slip of paper.
I entered, reminding myself to speak softly in this most sacred temple of bureaucracy, lest I offend the gods that dwelt there. I secured for myself a square of paper, upon which was inscribed one-hundred-and-three in bold red letters. The eldritch display upon the wall read merely fifty-eight, so I steeled myself for a long wait, yet knew the rewards for such a lengthy quest would be great.
Return later, as the adventure will continue anon!
Upon opening the envelope, I did find a missive addressed to me from a place called the DMV. Registration was required, lest my vehicle, a noble pickup of few dents and possessing a good radio, be declared remiss in the eyes of the law.
“Huzzah!” I shouted, startling the portly gentleman to my left, as he himself gazed upon his letters. “At last,” quoth I. “A quest worthy of one such as myself!” The gentleman edged away, yet I pretended not to notice.
“Huzzah!” I shouted again, noticing the Value Pac of coupons. “Dungbutter!” came next, as I opened my bill of credit, yet that is another story.
To my supervisor I did fly the next day, with news of my quest. “Steve!” I did cry. “To the DMV I must go!”
“Please stop shouting,” he replied. “Fine, just shoot me an email.”
“Verily! It shall be in your inbox in mere moments!”
An email was drafted, nay, forged, and sent forthwith to Steve the Managerial, so that he knew well my plan. And then I was off, descending by elevator into the very bowels of the parking garage where my pickup did wait, gleaming primer-gray in the darkness.
The engine sparked to life with the turning of the One True Key. Four cylinders whined in unison, like a gang of children begging for sweets, and I was off. Many miles were driven, many gears shifted, many songs sung off-key. At long last, I arrived at the DMV and maneuvered my truck betwixt the lines of parking, and then securing my paperwork, exited with a joyous cry.
Across the lot I bounded, upon the sidewalk I leapt, past the mailbox I galumphed, and found myself before the DMV. “Catnuts!” escaped my lips, for inside the fortress waited a veritable throng of fellow adventurers, each clutching a numbered slip of paper.
I entered, reminding myself to speak softly in this most sacred temple of bureaucracy, lest I offend the gods that dwelt there. I secured for myself a square of paper, upon which was inscribed one-hundred-and-three in bold red letters. The eldritch display upon the wall read merely fifty-eight, so I steeled myself for a long wait, yet knew the rewards for such a lengthy quest would be great.
Return later, as the adventure will continue anon!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
