this just in
by Debra Kamin

a good time at the DMV

The most amazing thing happened last week. I can’t understand it and I’m a little scared to trust it, but it happened: I had a good time at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

This just has to be wrong. It’s a societal norm that the DMV, like the dentist’s office, is a bastion of despair. As if trying to keep us honest, the bureaucrats-on-high insist on certain standards. Hours of waiting on hard plastic chairs. Paperwork so dense you consider hiring a secretary. Crying children, sneezing grandmas, clerks who make sure your eyes are crossed before they snap your photo. It’s expected. It’s understood. My God, it’s All-American.

Things were weird as soon as I entered the office. As usual, the room was filled with folks of every size, shape, and color—an occurrence that is extremely rare outside of these plaster gray, cubicle-lined walls. Strangely, though, the masses were quiet. There was no screaming, no yelling, not even a single rant and rave. Only the low hum of scratching pencils and the light murmur of conversation hung in the air.

At window 20, I informed the clerk that, due to the incredible convenience of the DMV’s location, I had arrived fifteen minutes early to renew my driver’s license.

“That’s fine, dear,” she chirped. “We can take you now.”

I looked over my shoulder for whomever she was speaking to. It certainly couldn’t be me. But the docile, well-groomed folks in line behind me only smiled.

“You can take me now?”

She nodded. This must be a fluke, the right side of my brain said to me. Milk it while you can, responded the left. The clerk handed me a clipboard (pen attached) that contained a simple one-page form. I shrugged, thanked my lucky traffic laws, and found a seat.

Almost immediately upon completing the form, my number was called by a different clerk. This lady offered niceties and thanked me for returning the clipboard before demanding a processing fee of 26 dollars. Nice they were, sure, but they still took your money.

I reached into my bag and felt around. A lump of dread formed in my stomach, soggy and dense as extra helpings of Bubbe’s kugel. I had forgotten my checkbook, and everyone knows the DMV does not take credit cards.

I opened my mouth to tell the lady, but she beat me to the punch. “We take debit cards now, too, hon. Do you have one of those?”

I pinched myself and it hurt. No, I wasn’t dreaming. I only had a moment to wonder if perhaps I was hallucinating and needed to see a doctor, though, because it was right about then that things got completely out of control.

Five years ago, when I was fresh out of the minivan from Ohio and had never heard of a fish taco or 5 p.m. gridlock, I participated in a Golden State initiation: I received a California driver’s license. Although I waited in a two-hour line and struggled through an absurdly difficult written traffic laws test (why do you folks paint your curbs so many different colors?), I managed to take a stunning license photo. I mean, we’re talking hot. Perfect hair, movie-star smile. California, here I am, it said. Put me behind the wheel; let’s gun it!

I hardly expected such luck to happen again.
My Motor Vehicle Karma gods, however, were a bit more confident. At the photo station, the plucky girl in charge of the camera took my form and asked me how I was doing that morning.

“About as good as I can,”I said, “since I’m about to take my driver’s license photo.”

There was a line at least ten people deep behind me, but this young lady was in no hurry. “We’ll get a good shot, now don’t you worry,” she said.

I stood in front of the blue screen, and the shutter clicked. I was already turning away when I heard, “eh, that wasn’t so great. Would you like to take another?”

Another photo? Is that legal?

She took a second shot, and then a third. There were no impatient jabs from the folks waiting for their shots, and I was able to maintain my composure, focus, and muster yet another perfect smile.

My driving record may not be perfect, but thanks to the DMV, my driver’s license photo record remains stellar.

Maybe I was dreaming, and still am. Maybe my alarm will blare any second, and as soon I open my eyes it will hit me: today is the day that I have to go to the dreaded DMV.

If so, please don’t wake me.

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