Dog Days at the DMV

It was like a nightmare come true. The bank teller to which I had offered my driver's license as proof of identity handed it back to me and casually said, "By the way, did you know that your driver's license has expired?"

After the security guard had helped me to my feet and my head began to clear I did seem to vaguely remember a notice in the mail to the effect that I needed to renew my license on or before my birthday. Since the notice came two months before my birthday, I figured, like any normal person, that there was plenty of time to take care of this detail. The notice, of course, was quickly buried in the river of paper that flows daily through our house, and out-of-sight-out-of-mind.

I made my way home as quickly as I could, certain that the police and Homeland Security and the INS and the FBI and the KGB were all now aware of my lapse and were even now on their way to put me in chains. Okay, they couldn't know (or did that teller press a silent alarm?), but as a child I lived in mortal fear that somehow I would accidentally tear off one of those tags that stated, "Do not remove under penalty of law" and would be immediately arrested.

Once home I stashed the car in the garage and contemplated my next move. I would have to go to the nearest DMV office and get my license renewed. It would be too dangerous to drive there. What if a DMV official asked how I had gotten to the office? I could feel the flop-sweat breaking out on my forehead just thinking about it. But I knew I could get there using public transportation. And since this was a simple renewal it should be easy and straightforward.

A bus and a train later, I arrived at the DMV office, checkbook in hand to find it packed with people. As soon as I had managed to squeeze in through the front door, I found myself in a line. The line was moving fairly quickly, which raised my expectations of concluding this whole business before noon. These expectations were soon dashed when I found that the line led only to a metal encased box with a slot, a large red button and a sign that said smugly, "Please take a number."

I punched the button and the device spat out a slip of paper bearing the number four. A large electronic display on the wall proudly announced that they were currently working on number 65. I found a seat in the waiting area and waited and waited and waited. I felt like I had fallen into an alternate universe. Two men across the aisle were chatting with each other in Russian and the people on either side of me were chatting away in Spanish. Only three of the five stations behind the counter were occupied and only two of those were handling people. The third clerk was staring a computer screen and typing furiously.
After an hour and a half a miracle happened. The typing clerk stopped typing and began calling out numbers. Another clerk announced that she was now handling express items (renewals was one of them), which she would take in numerical order. After a brief scramble as people shoved their slips of paper at one another trying to see who had the lowest number, I found myself at the head of the line.

"I want to renew my license," I said as I stepped up to the clerk.

"Fine," she said, "I'll need to see your birth certificate and proof of your Social Security Number."

"But I already have a license," I replied.

"These are new rules, so we can't use your old license," she responded.

"But I don't have any of those things with me," I said.

She reached over and grabbed a slip of paper, stamped it and initialed it, saying, "Here!" as she shoved it into my hand.

The slip of paper had stamped on it, "Day Pass," and she had initialed it in the proper place. I had no choice but to return home and collect all the documentation required. The birth certificate was no problem because I had needed one a couple of years ago for a State certification. The Social Security Number was a bigger problem. My card, after centuries of abuse had long ago given up the ghost and returned to its constituent elements. But I did manage to find a tax document, which had my Social Security Number on it along with my name. I packed the papers in a dispatch bag and headed back to the DMV.

When I arrived, for the second time that day, I found that there were many fewer people than when I had begun my ordeal. In fact, there was only one woman ahead of me in the express line. She was trying to renew her license.

"I'll need to see your birth certificate," said the clerk.

"Here it is," the woman said proudly.

"Hmm," said the clerk, "the name on the certificate is Jones and the surname on your old license is Richter."

"I am divorced," said the woman.

"Well then," said the clerk, "I'll need to see the marriage license to verify your name change from Jones to Richter."

"I've been married five times," wailed the woman. "I don't know where those papers are."

"I'm sorry," said the clerk, "but you will need documents to verify the chain of name changes from Jones to Richter before we can give you a new license."

The woman, near hysteria, left and I moved up to the counter. This time there was no problem. I passed the eye test and had my picture taken. My hopes of having a picture that did not make me look like a criminal or an escaped lunatic were dashed, but I now have a license. I have a vision of a woman whose birth name was Jones being deported to Mexico or Russia or Canada because she can't find all the papers through five marriages and divorces that link her to her birth. It's the dog days of summer at the DMV.