Road Rage Starts Here
Where's the line?
We located the closest DMV location and headed there to get our new licenses. We opened the door to the office and encountered a multitude of other like-minded individuals, some sitting in chairs and others standing, huddled in the available space, almost like mingling at a cocktail party (without the booze). The agency was calling numbers, so I asked someone where I should go to get one. "You've got to get in line," someone said, motioning to the cocktail party that by now had snaked outside the office door and into the entryway. I placed myself at the end of this makeshift line and waited there while Maria sat in a chair inside. I smiled feebly at her through the window, trying to show that all was OK.
And then a man with an authoritative voice barked at us, as if those of us in line were a bunch of delinquents: "I can't have y'all waiting in this area. You need to wait outside on the sidewalk." I reminded myself that this was merely the line to get a number, and I became discouraged. I went back inside, summoned Maria, and we left. Someone in the gathering back in line (perhaps noting my discouraged look) informed me that this was typical of Charlotte DMV offices, and that I should try the office in Gastonia. She added that everybody complains about the poor service with the DMVs here, but they never do anything to make it better. Encouraging words, indeed.
Let's try something else
The next day Maria and I asked someone about a better place to go to get a North Carolina license. He suggested the office in Concord, but cautioned that it was a forty minute drive from our home. I felt like forty minutes driving would beat forty minutes of aggravation sitting in a DMV offiice, so we went to Concord.
When we arrived at the Concord office, we were happy to see that there was not much of a line to to the receptionist where we would get our number, but when we presented our documents, we realized that dealing with the DMV here is an adversarial relationship.
"I need documentation to show your middle name," the lady told Maria. Years ago Maria elected to not use her middle name, using instead the initial of her maiden name. The United States passport office was cool with it, so who would have thought that the North Carolina DMV would be so concerned?
"Do you have a marriage license?" the lady asked. We have one, of course, but I asked myself why would we have brought one here. I just looked back at her as she handed me a form.
"You can fill out this affidavit showing a name change. Get it notarized and bring it back." More discouragement. I got a number, giving me the privilege of waiting forty-five minutes to see an agent. Maria would have to come back.
Shame, shame, shame
When they called my number, I walked through a door into another room and went up to agent desk number two. Without eye contact and without a smile, my designated agent asked me, "What are you here for?" It was a question reminiscent of what one prisoner might ask another upon arrival at a penal institution. The mood got darker. My agent, at some point in his civil service career (perhaps during training, or maybe during long, mind-numbing hours on the job), had all of his personality removed. He mumbled incoherently as he glanced at my documents and entered data into the computer.
Then he asked me: "What color car?" At least that's what I thought he asked.
"The color of my car?" I asked him, wondering what that had to do with my license.
"What color EYES?" he retorted. "Oh--uh, blue," I answered, feeling like a reprimanded school kid. And I thought it couldn't get any worse.
"Look in here and read the first two lines," he said, motioning to the machine next to me. I pushed my face into the apparatus and a light came on. I read the letters. Success. I got through that with no problem.
"Now read lines one through ten," he said. These were road signs. Piece of cake. I've been driving over forty years. Easy-peasy. Except that the last four signs here were just blank shapes--no words or symbols. I stumbled through it, guessing. The agent looked at me and asked, "You don't know what seven through ten are?" I had to admit that I did not. Not without words on them. He shook his head like he was dealing with an idiot and then explained to me what they meant.
I felt doomed. But then he surprised me: "Thirty-two dollars," he said, looking at my open checkbook. I survived!
I suppose that this little exercise was just meant to humiliate me, that's all. A sense of shame mixed with relief washed over me as I went to get my photo taken. I sat in the chair, looked up, and smiled.
FLASH. "Next."