The DMV Gets Personal!

I’ve been to so many DMVs now that I was actually looking forward to this trip. The line out the door did not please me though. I wanted to sit down and start writing. Instead I had to write with the notebook propped up on my arm, like this. Bummer.

The guy in front of me smelled like Dial soap. The chalky white kind. I liked him immediately for this. Forgave him for incessantly hollering into his cell phone. “I’m bout to get my ID, know what I’m saying, so I can take care of this.” I didn’t mind. He was clean. The lady behind me was looking into my notebook and I tried to figure out if she’d be more interested in the drunken doodles I did Saturday night (which, frankly, interested me a great deal at the time), or the many different writings by hand on my pages. I reluctantly started another.

A Mandarin officer stood at the wall across from the doors. Bureaucracy homogenizes its agents even down to facial features. Seriously. I had to look twice to make sure the man was Chinese. Not that it mattered. Clearly. His principal duty seemed to consist of preventing the line from blocking the doors. He pointed at me and I figured this out without turning down my music. I kind of danced into line and a few people looked my way. I moved my head to the beat.

As the line in front of me got smaller the words began to flow. By the time Soapy stepped up to the counter I was scribbling away furiously, trying to get the major ideas down before I had to talk. It could have been my imagination but I felt like people watched me for this. There were lines everywhere, and on my way to the counter I did my own people-watching. Mostly girls. But there weren’t that many attractive girls there. Some could have been. I thought maybe it’s because of where we were. Or because the demographic was so varied. I didn’t want to hold the line up so I put my notebook back in my bag and turned the music off.

Well I showed the man my passport and everything was in order so he printed a G ticket and stapled it to my form. 195 and they were only at 140. A girl had come up to the counter during my turn and asked the same man who stapled my ticket what to do if she missed her number. “I give you another one. You wait another hour. Hour and a half.” Figured it’d be at least that long. Almost all the seats were packed, but I was prepared for this. I found a seat against the wall and took my notebook back out. Pushed play on my iPod again. “The line was out the door when he got there which did not surprise him tho of course this did not please him either.” Crap. I put the notebook down. This was prime time for people watching. It’s foolish to start writing or painting or expressing yourself in any way when you’re oblivious to your surroundings. Started to take them in. Plenty of time yet to write this story (that was my goal and the whole reason I was looking forward to the trip).

I saw a girl in the front row who was undoubtedly younger than I but close enough. She reminded me of a former love of mine and I thought how pretty her hair was or might be reflected in the right light. She was reading a book and barely moved for minutes on end. My eyes kept returning to her hair and the book in her hands. Every time I looked away I saw something comparably beautiful in the others. It was surprisingly easy, despite the mute nature of their bodies. No one was really moving at all. Heads were all down, literally, across the room. There was a guy behind her also reading and I don’t think I saw either one of them turn a single page. “If you just decided to shine, everyone, you would each be so beautiful.” I say this because no one was, really. I knew if the girl turned around and we shared a word or two – it probably wouldn’t take more than that – she would lose all charm. Not that I was sitting there idealizing everyone but it was the fluorescence in her hair that attracted me and what it could mean, not anything she was doing. Again, she might as well have been reading the same page over and over, or worse: simply pretending to read. Maybe she couldn’t! Maybe he couldn’t! Maybe I couldn’t!

But I was reading plenty. For some, this was a time for reflection. Book might have been a nice prop for that. A little inner conversation. It was either that, there, or look around – as I was doing. I figured why not – there was nothing to hide from. I knew time wouldn’t pass any faster if I sulked. Instead I took my camera out and began taking pictures. I realized for the first time in all my DMV experiences that this was an opportune time to take pictures of people, to study them and see what they have to tell you. I stood up. Hell, I’m usually bashful when it comes to taking pictures but I found myself shooting the man next to me. I virtually put the camera in his face and he sat there like nothing was happening. I caught a bunch of candid shots. It dawned on me the one thing I did not have in my bag was a book and this pleased me.

Most of the people around me were Chinese and I find that language fascinating so I took my audio recorder out and hit record. The combination of Chinese conversations with the regular mechanical ticket announcements made me happy just thinking about it. I haven’t listened yet. I’m kind of saving it.

Some of the people overwhelmed me to such a degree I had to sit down and look at them more closely without the camera. Who chose to wear stockings, who glasses or hats. Tip your hat down. Do not be afraid of beauty or foolishness. Glow. I look at the girl with auburn hair and the guy behind her, the readers, and the other girl in the front row at her stockings and shoes. Radiate regardless of what you illuminate. Do not quiet your light for my or any other stranger sake. Let me kiss your awkwardness and be off. If only ignorance could be cured with a single look … I think it can be less than a blink.

I switch focus to a woman behind the counter. I think she was Window 4. Her smile seems so out of place. Sincere but impersonal. I say this although I’m the one with the camera aimed at her face – or rather, at the elbow of the man in front of her, just waiting for him to move so I can steal a permanent glimpse of this smile. Didn’t come out though. She reminds me of the stressed-out man who kept saying he was going on break but could not stop helping people. When he did the line slowed down and a new man replaced him with no desperation and no cause. He did not care … slowly he stapled ticket to form, ticket to form, point, signal. His person did not blossom in that atmosphere and somehow the other man’s did – even if he didn’t want it to. He smiled as he got ten or fifteen steps away from his post for freedom but the other man did not smile going to or coming from work, I wager, and may not blossom at all. Styles and lack thereof. Life—.

About this time a girl sat next to me and I did not take much notice of her, personally, but I did notice she had a copy of Great Expectations in her lap and after a minute of thinking about it I closed my notebook and looked at her for the first time.

We talked about mostly obvious things. If you knew either one of us I’m sure you could predict the conversation. I suppose that’s a good thing really. Neither one of us was trying to be someone we weren’t and one thing led to another. An open exchange of information that was fairly personal. Where do you come from, oh really. How long have you been here. What do you do. Do you like it. That must be pretty rewarding. I’m like the luckiest girl in the world. I love my job. Wow, that’s awesome. What about you?

Usually when I divulge personal information there’s a reason for it. Or a pretext for reason. I offer you this information for the sake of trust or friendship. The worst is when I’m at a bar and we’re sharing high times together. The worst because it doesn’t go anywhere and I don’t want it to. Just time speaking excitedly into the dark – hardly different than a late-night episode in an unlit park with my notebook. Having a reflection helps.

As I was talking about myself I looked from time to time at this strange girl’s face, pretty and kind and interested, a little more powder and color than I’d like but then it wasn’t wholly unpleasant and it wasn’t like I had any plans to touch, feel or love it. This her. We were both just passing the time until our numbers were called. It was pleasant and comfortable and a little bit strange for that. Dreamy in that way that most abnormally real things are. People turned to look at us, deep in conversation tho obviously strangers, and they looked on for longer than is usually acceptable.

It could have been them talking. They could talk to any number of strangers right now. They could even talk to us. They could unburden themselves or even just compliment someone for no reason but to express themselves. We wouldn’t mind if they spoke up and joined us. We weren’t talking to produce anything, see? It’s always possible to get up and move, too, even if your number hasn’t been called yet. There are plenty of seats, and plenty of other conversations.

There weren’t though. No one else was talking like we were and the place was packed. The guy directly in front of her had, half a minute before, turned 180 degrees and was just watching us, watching and listening. It did not affect me tho, and I kept talking. There was no affront, no challenge. He was merely observing.

G 186.
Oh, is that you?
No, I’m 196. … I just wanna check to make sure. Oh, one ninety five. Glad I checked.

I don’t believe this even now but the conversation resumed. There might have been a flicker of wonder between us, but we didn’t share this if it happened, so it didn’t come between us. When I looked at her I wondered, probably for the first time, if intentions were involved. Naturally this was the time to consider such things, if they were to be considered.

G190.

I would consider going out with her, I think, even though she doesn’t excite me. Even though she’s pretty. Then again we’re having this conversation and even though there’s nothing fantastic about it there’s nothing forced either. I would call this normal because it feels normal but that’s not what it’s called for me to have a conversation this long with anyone, let alone a stranger.

I began to look at the board regularly, not from fear or desire but with each number a growing excitement. G191. G192. F005. I looked for them on the board and saw them and knew soon I would hear it and then see G195 on the board too and then it would be over and I’d be on my way to get another license.

193. I’m really excited now and try to pay attention but I also don’t want to miss my number, don’t want to be like that first girl. 194. She’s still in to whatever we were talking about as though we still have forever but my number is next and I wonder now is the time, do I ask for her number or give her mine, and I guess I’d already decided at this point because it was nearly too late to do anything now. They were just about to call

G195.

That’s me. It was nice talking to you.
Yeah. Nice talking to you. Take care.
You too.

I say this tenderly. She seemed to be, maybe, a little upset. Maybe I was the one. Maybe I was upset.

At the counter, Window 22, I met with a young well-dressed Asian who must have been about my age – maybe a year or two older. He didn’t seem to belong there – youth was still in his face and disposition even though he said he was tired.

This impression confronted me because I was nervous. My eyes have become even worse and I was afraid I’d fail the vision test. But the woman in Window 24 asked Bonah – which was not his name – if he could translate something. Window 23 started laughing when Bay said his name was Bon-Hwa. They all laughed and explained but I wasn’t listening. Their voices floated around me as I stood motionless with confusion. Behind Bon-Hwa was a shelf I might not have noticed had 24 known 22.

Dad’s prosthetic was on the shelf, right next to the radio Grandma used to listen to her stories on. The only time my father’s been to San Francisco was on his Honeymoon and I wasn’t around then to see this. But I had seen it, and besides: my father is still alive. Grandma’s still alive, too, bless her heart (as they say where she lives). And her house is pretty much a museum – I’m sure that radio’s right where it’s always been.

I looked back to see if the girl was where I’d left her, but she wasn’t. I apologized to Bon-Hwa and dug into my bag, looking to prove my identity.

This piece is a fictionalized account of my latest experience at the DMV, written for Coq and Bull's monthly Soapbox series in which the magazine provides one sentence that must be featured, unchanged, in the story. This was for July, and the line was: "dad's prosthetic was on the shelf, right next to the radio Grandma used to listen to her stories on."