DMV

DMV stands for Dumb Mental and Vicious, or something like it, right?

Today, I went to the DMV on East Market Street to renew my license.

The last time I went there was 8 years ago. On that visit, I didn't have to wait more than 5 minutes to get my license renewed, and the lady who worked there was (gasp!) friendly. She even gave me the benefit of a doubt on my vision test when I told her I'd read the sign across the room after not doing so good on their version of an eye-test.

Man, things have changed.

First, I had to swim my way through the nicotine/tar fumes that were between my car door and the entrance. It must have been Super Long Newport day at the Lorrilard plant right next door. I actually got a buzz, I think. My head is still a little foggy.

I open the door to the run-down brick building and cannot even step in because the line was pressed against the door. I love to watch people almost fall down when I pull open the door they are leaning on. I look ahead and there must have been about 40 people in line, another 20 t0 30 sitting in chairs along the side. They look like they had been left there about 2 years ago. Hope doesn't exist in a single eye.

Every race has their own smell. White people smell like wet dogs. Blacks smell like trailer furniture. Mexicans smell like lard, engine grease and shit.

Must have been my luck cause Monday is Mexican day at the DMV. Of the 60 to 70 people in line or too tired to stand in line, all but 5 were Mexican.

I waited and the line didn't move. Mexicans entered the door behind me but they must not know that lines start in the back and proceeded to pass me. I taught them the rules and some new English words real fast.

As I waited, wondering if there was another line for citizens or people who didn't want to kill themselves today, a computerized voice came across the P.A. system. Over the droning sound of stupid-spanish and sick coughing children, a calm emotionless female says "Now serving A-008"

I think to myself just how much this country is going to hell, while trying not to breathe.

About 5 minutes later, the calm lady's voice announces they are now serving A-009. The line still hasn' t moved. Am I on drugs or is everyone in here moving in slow-motion?

I finally get close enough to the beginning of the line that I can hear and see enough to keep myself entertained. Any form of entertainment would do at that point. I discovered that the line I was standing in was just the line to check if you have proper identification. You didn't go anywhere until you made it past that checkpoint.

Note to illegal immigrants and other idiots: Neither a Mexican birth certificate written by a 3rd grader, your Harris Teeter V.I.C. card, a letter from Pedro, nor a La Bamba coupon are acceptable forms of identification that will get you a license.

Out of the line of 40 in front of me, only 1 has the proper ID. Guess what? He was white. And he looked like he just got out of prison. He later asked me if I knew where the nearest bus stop existed. I told him that he was smack in the middle of mexi-negra hell and so he wouldn't have to walk long.

I got to the id check and the lady was so nice it was incredible. How could anyone work in this environment and stay nice? HAD to be the prozac.

I showed her my soon-to-expire license. That's all it took.

She handed me a piece of paper and pointed me to a wall of school desks from Little House on the Prairie. I looked at the desk right beside mine and the words "Emmanual was here--1978" were scratched crudely into the top. I turned to the guy sitting at the desk and asked "Are you Emmanual?" He didn't laugh.

On my piece of paper was printed A-028. They were currently on A-011.

Across from me, were 2 black female and 1 black male DMV employees. None of them had smiled since Martin Luther King died. The black male was currently yelling at a 'customer' to read signs 1 through 10. The black female (who was really pretty by DMV standards--she had both legs) was talking on her cell to Quanecious. The other black lady just seemed to be day-dreaming that she was someplace else. I couldn't blame her.

I looked at the militant looking black man. "Please God, don't let me get him" I thought to myself. I already knew that I had no chance of passing the eye-test. But if I got that man, I would probably end up in jail. Black guys don't cut guys like me much slack.

Fortunately, I got the daydreaming older black lady. I've been living right, I guess.

She gave me the eye exam and told me to read her the signs. Then she said "$20".

I couldn't believe it!! That was it! I'm actually going to get my license the first time and not have to come back!! I'm not going to have to go get glasses again?

I pressed my luck and leaned close to her and asked "how close did I come to the eye-test".

"Oh, honey, you're gonna be restricted" she replied looking right past me at the next in line.

They took my picture.

After another 5 minute wait sitting beside 'freshly paroled' they called my name. I grabbed my license and ran for daylight. As I stepped out into the world again, I breathed deeply. It was like I had been held under water for an hour. Unfortunately, I had forgotten about the Newport plant next door and nearly choked to death.

When I had safely made it to my car, I counted to 10 to build up courage. I dared look at the picture I took. For the first time ever, I took a GREAT picture. Then I looked down at the restrictions line. It said None.

It must be white-boy day after all.