The line outside the DMV was depressingly long. It was 1:45 and I had a 2:00 appointment to renew my driver’s license but with a crowd like this I doubted that it mattered, so I got in line and glanced discreetly at my neighbors. The people around me seemed to have an inordinate number of tattoos, and there was not a healthy set of teeth in the crowd. If I did not know I was at the DMV I would have thought I had wandered into a convention of carnival ride attendants.
Just then a large, official looking woman materialized and said, “Anyone got an appointment? If you got an appointment, come right on in.” My mood elevating, I maneuvered my way to the head of the line, murmuring apologies as I went.
Once I got inside it was like I was in two separate worlds. The right side, for walk-in renewals, was packed, but on the left side, for appointments, there were just two women waiting in line. Anticipating a short wait, I quickly checked that I had my birth certificate, social security card and proof of residency.
As I waited, I observed the huddled masses that didn’t have an appointment. In the harsh, industrial, DMV lighting they looked vaguely threatening, especially the ones who were giving the evil eye to the aristocrats in the appointments line, which by this point was just me. It’s the same look I get when I go into the frequent flyer security line at the airport.
When I got to the counter, the clerk thanked me for having all my documents. This seemed odd since the State sent a checklist detailing exactly what was needed. “Do people come in without their documents?” I asked. The clerk motioned to her left where a scrawny man was arguing that he didn’t know he needed his birth certificate.
The clerk who was helping him calmly explained that a birth certificate or passport or green card was a requirement. “How was I supposed to know that,” he said, voice rising. “Sir, it’s on your checklist,” said the clerk soothingly. “What checklist?” said Scrawny Man.
The clerk did not even permit herself a sigh. “The checklist in your hand, Sir,” she said, never raising her voice. I was impressed; if I were the clerk, my inclination would have been to reach across the counter, grab Scrawny Man by the throat and shake him until his tooth fell out. But I soon forgot the scrawny man and the clerk because it was time for my eye test, which I passed easily.
Then it was time for my picture. I stood in front of a screen, and when the picture-taker said, “Show me those pearly whites, Sweetie,” I did. Then I sat down to wait for my license to be made. A moment later she called me back.
“I need to retake your picture, Sweetie,” she said kindly, “the first one is no good.”
“Why?” I asked. “Can I see?” She shook her head violently. “Why ruin your day?” she asked, and took another picture. Soon after she called me back, sighed and handed me my new driver’s license. “Way better than the first one,” she said, not making eye contact with me.
I looked down at my brand new license, the one that I will be presenting as my ID for many years to come and almost lost my lunch. Thanks to some unholy alliance of photography and karma, I was smiling broadly but under the harsh DMV lighting it looked like I was missing most of my teeth.