A girlfriend called yesterday morning to ask about a good hair salon. She said she’d been really depressed lately and wanted a change in her life so she was going to cut out her four-year-old locks and go to the DMV (not for fun but because she had to renew something vehicular.)
Little did I know I was only 24 hours behind her. I don’t like running errands though I find running them to be a huge majority of my time spent on this earth. Somehow I manage to stress about even the most ho-hum of happenings on errand days. This morning we had to get Little Blue inspected. First of all, who knows exactly what to do at the DMV? There is probably some code book DMV-ers must read before entering that ominous, sweaty, disgruntled line of unhappy souls awaiting a number and a seat and a few death-defying moments with the clerk. I often feel there was a secret DMV class in kindergarten of which the entire world was sworn to an oath of silence and that because of my chickenpox, I missed. Somehow, the DMV is more terrifying than my unusual yet legitimate fear of balloons (they pop…it’s scary.)
This morning, after a scramble to find the proper entrance through a chicken-wire fence, and a nervous parking job (“is that one? or is that the road?”), we pulled Little Blue up to a wooden post where a red stop sign and a list of necessary documents were nailed. During the feverishly awkward exchange with the attendant who checked our brake and turn signal lights and who spent an extra moment with our insurance and registration cards, she gave the unclear instruction to proceed to window #1 and then window #2. The thing I really love about St. Thomas that I had missed so much on my trip home is the public chatter. People were hailing each other with shaking hands and the sharing of family news. I guess my people chat but not in the same genuine way as St. Thomians. The other thing I hate to love about St. Thomas is the funny way in which everyone knows where the line is without actually being in line. A man and some others were sitting on upholstered office chairs behind a few scraggly rows of people that at some point wandered up to a window. A Russian lady was anxiously digging her bright stiletto heel into the linoleum. Behind her, a braided, bright eye-shadowed Mamita unleashed her ears from an iPod to roll brown eyes at me. “I know, Mami, I know.” Nobody likes the DMV. It’s part of the code. Somehow I managed to get that much.
We took a place in a line we guessed led to the right window (the right building? the right island? the right dimension?) Nasim began chatting with an Atlanta man behind her. They shared iPhone secrets and reminisced about the A. He told us the corrupt history of the DMV and how it once was the worst place to be on the island aside from the waterfront in a hurricane. Apparently it’s improved. As we proceeded to window #2 the attendant brushed the air in front of us, herding us on to window #3, the posted hours of which were 11 to 11:45. I checked my phone, 10:50. After several moments I was tapped by a man facing me but caught only the end of his question, “…help you?” Confused, I responded as if someone had injected me with a fresh batch of stupid, “Can I help…?” He laughed, “How can I help you?” Nasim rescued me by handing him our documents. He told us to take our turn on the plush office chairs. In the corner next to us was the Public Notary whose iPhone was spewing gospel music loud enough to engross the entire left-wing of the small building. The phone was even plugged in for maximum gospel battery-life. “See, you can even go to church while you wait.” smiled Nasim. The Notary was very quietly pressing her ballpoint down the clip-boarded page of some official document and explaining the hairy details to a young woman. Shortly after, the young woman took her leave and, like an understudy, a young man with cornrows neatly braided together into hard pigtails took her place. The same ballpoint pressed against a fresh form and the Notary quietly shpeeled something official to him. I missed it, but suddenly her quiet explanation became a slew of life advice, which caught the man off-guard and sent him, Nasim, and our Atlanta man friend into hearty chuckles.
Never a dull moment slips by without notice. The next was performed by a man who played the part of one truly displeased with his visit to the DMV. “Should I get you a plaque that says ‘idiot?’” he yelled through “closed” window #4. The yelling continued through windows #3 and #2 until he seemed satisfied at having articulated his ire to enough idiots. I can't imagine enjoying being called an idiot after spending half my life working at a place that produces fantastic amounts of papers and lines.
The best part about this morning was when Nasim gave her seat to an older woman whose subtle grin reminded me of my grandmother. We shared a few sarcastic comments about the way folks will wait until the last minute to get inspected. She could have been my grandmother. It wasn’t until her daughter and grandson joined us that I found my new future husband. He’s only eight months, but he’s the quiet type and I like that…even if my fingers might as well have been delicious French fries. He took a minute to warm up to my flirting but I can say it was truly love at first sight.
From behind the small slit of the closed, tinted window #5 we saw a pair of eyes suddenly appear and begin to brazenly study the crowd. Shortly thereafter we heard our names called. Our documents were pushed out to us from the set of eyes, never once breaking their impressively careful study. We grabbed the papers, waved goodbye to everyone, and let a pang of sweet envy linger in our wake.
In fact, the DMV wasn’t so bad. We’d only stayed an hour and a half as opposed to the twelve hours we had anticipated. We had even packed granola bars and water expecting to overwinter in that little building. A friend had mentioned to us a while ago that he’d paid someone to wait in line for him at the DMV. "Dear Holly, sorry...we spent the rest of our 6 months getting our car registered." I might even have expected the floor to be made of lava and giant swinging axes that dangled from endless ceilings. I suppose I expect the worst in most situations and perhaps I can form some kind of stretched metaphor about preconceived ideas, the DMV, and pioneering, but I find myself highly incapable of drawing profound conclusions after our little affair with the Department of Motor Vehicles.
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