Two Hours at the DMV
It's a little like stepping into bizzaro world.
As I write this, I am sitting here at the DMV because they sent me a letter stating I need to turn in form DL11. According to the CA DMV website, form DL11 is used to declare you are an emancipated minor so you can get your Learner’s Permit. I guess the clue that I was born in the 60s and I came in a month ago to renew my license wasn’t enough for them to realize I am a grown adult who qualifies for AARP and probably doesn’t need to fill out form DL11. You can imagine my trepidation as I didn’t have an appointment because I just received this letter and my license was going to expire the next day. I stood in the “Start Here” line and then handed the man my letter. He read the letter, looked up at me, and made the most classic “What the F*&K” look. He asked for my phone number and sent me a text with my line number, GO62. Even he was baffled. I sat down and looked at the big board, they were on GO43 with other letters in progress.
Before arriving I knew the wait would be a long one. When leaving my house I initially picked up a book to help pass my time, but I have been lamenting and ruminating and flogging myself (usually at 2:00 am) over my lack of Substack production. I want to write but every idea never feels good enough. Who will want to read that or this? Or I am certain everyone will say, “Why did I subscribe to this crap?” But I need to knock that shit off, so I grabbed a notebook and made myself write instead of reading or playing 237 games of solitaire on my phone. I promised myself that whatever I write while at the DMV, I HAVE to publish.
Of the dozens of times I have been to the DMV over the last thirty-nine years, the DMV hasn’t changed one single bit. I sat there and looked around and was transported to being 16 again or 19 when I came in to take my ambulance driver’s license test (which is even more ridiculous than the regular driver’s license test) or when I was 27 and came in to take the multiple tests for the endorsements I needed to drive a fire engine. The same people were there, the same counter set up, the same black plastic chairs, the same murmur of multiple conversations, the same black (or is it brown?) window numbers, and the same lady’s voice announcing, with a specific rhythmic cadence, the number in line and corresponding window, “Now serving BO36, at window number 14.” I also noticed a disproportionate number of older folks and minorities. I did see two teenagers with parents in tow. I assumed the sixteen-year-olds, were getting their licenses for the first time. I wondered if there were any emancipated minors hoping to get their learner’s permit.
All you readers better hope this doesn’t take hours or you will have a lot of crap to read.
Some lady announced, without a microphone or PA, to the entire building full of people that their credit card machines were down. But, she added, they do still take cash or checks. No one except my wife carries cash or checks with them anymore. Around this time, I saw a woman being helped in the “Start Here” line, holding a dog wearing a red and green plaid sweater (definitely Christmas attire, not a service dog vest.) I totally should have brought Harriet. They would have pushed me to the front of the line to get that lady and her dog that barked and asked everyone for food out of there.
Finally, one hour and three minutes later, that familiar voice from above and my past called, “Now serving GO62, at window number 6.” I say hello to the lady at window number 6 and hand her my letter. As I began to explain I was in a month ago to renew my license without any issue, and instead of getting a new license, I just received this letter, she held her hands up and said, “Please show me your text with GO62 and give me your driver’s license before they give me a new number assignment.” With my plugged ears from a nasty cold, I strained to hear her soft voice through the mask she was wearing. I asked her if she could repeat herself. She did. I dug out my license and began to look for the text on my phone and she said, “Please hurry, they are about to give me a new assignment and you will have to start over.” I hurry and once I show her the text proving I am the holder of GO62 place in line she says, “Ok, how can I help you?” While fuming just a wee bit, I handed her the letter and explained my situation. As she read the letter, I looked at her personal effects and things around her work area. An 8.5” x 11” piece of paper with a saying that looks like it was hastily written with a green highlighter read, You leave footprints everywhere you go, just make sure they are of kindness and love. She said, “Please sit down I need to make some phone calls.” I looked at the Footprints saying again and took a deep breath.
I sat for fifteen more minutes and the lady who told the entire building they no longer take credit cards called my name to another window. “Are you a firefighter or do you still drive a fire engine?” I said, “No.” She tells me that’s the problem, they need to remove the endorsements from my license. She adds, “We are on the phone with Ish and will get it resolved right now. Just have a seat and we’ll call you when we’ve finished.” I see a sign on the wall behind her desk that says, “Negativity is a thief, it steals happiness.” I sit back down and wait. I wonder how many DMV workspaces have these signs, imploring people to not lose their shit. And what or who in the hell is Ish? I have a friend named Ish who lives in Oregon, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t talking to him.
Five minutes later I heard my name again and walked back to the counter. A different supervisor talking on the phone while sitting at what looked like the control center desk, lowered the phone to below her chin and asked me, “Just to confirm, you aren’t a firefighter or drive a fire engine anymore, nor do you want to?” My brain paused, contemplating for a nanosecond the thought of never being a firefighter or driving a fire engine (legally) again. Are we really doing this Christy? Are you sure you want to give up your firefighter’s license? Another part of my brain took over and said out loud, “Yes, that is correct.” She replied, “Ok I just wanted to make sure.” I hear you lady, my brain needed to make sure too.
You readers are probably tired of hearing about this long, drawn-out death of my existence for twenty-five years — I know I am. As soon as I think I’ve moved on, from out of nowhere I get hit. But life is like that, there you are minding your own business, feeling all fancy turning in your application to be a fifty-five-year-old emancipated minor getting their Learner’s Permit, and then WHAM! life kicks you right in the ass. But this time it reminded me that it’s not about what I am or what I was, but about the footprints I leave or the happiness I create. I already knew this, but I needed the reminder written right there behind window number 6 and window number 12.
You hit it out of the park. Finding wisdom at the DMV. We can always learn something from anyone if we look and listen.
First of all, you could write a Substack about buttering a piece of toast and I would read it and probably laugh out loud at least two or three times. But the DMV is a freaking gold mine, esp. if you're old enough to be a member of the AARP and you have to deal with the surreal weirdness of explaining that you are not, in fact, an emancipated minor needing a learner's permit. And oh man, did you get a lot of gold out of that mine!
I loved every word of this—the way you captured the surreal, molasses-slow rhythms of the DMV, the fact that the posters that say the exact opposite of what is actually happening, the emotional gut-punch at the end. All of it. Thank you, thank you for deciding it's time to get your shit together and write more. It's a gift to all of us.
Also, not that you asked for advice, but I have the same exact internal monologue every time I write anything and I have found that what helps is... just actually writing. Like, the more I write the more it feels like a part of my routine, which I know is what all the writing advice says to do—JUST WRITE, FOR FUCK'S SAKE—but I am here to tell you that the advice works, and it only took me a couple of decades to buy in.