Can you remember the last time you had a really good day at the DMV? Me neither, and I work there. At first light, the hungry hoards press against the double glass doors clamoring to get in, mercilessly seeking photo ID’s, drivers’ tests, auto title changes, and learners’ permits. Mondays are the worst, particularly in June when every sixteen-year-old in California is hell-bent to get behind the wheel.
On and on they come
all day long. And there I am, the bitch sheepdog charged with herding these
lambs and goats into their proper lines, with paperwork filled out completely
and correctly. In truth, my real task is keeping the wolves from eating the
livestock.
There are some dedicated public servants here at my DMV
office. Well, actually only one, Maria Cortez who helps driver’s license
applicants take their written test on our fancy new electronic system. She’s a
saint. On the other hand, Bob, Mercy, and Melanie are as enthused as a deflated
tire, waiting out their years until retirement. Melanie’s response to customer
complaints is always, “This ain’t Nordstrom’s, honey.” Most of the rest of us
do our jobs as best we can, but little more.
My first inquiry on this one particular day came from a
middle-aged woman who obviously felt it important to wear her favorite flowered
yellow dress to come to the DMV, complete with pearls, spiked black heels and a
heavy coat of hairspray. “Por favor,”
she said, in a sugary half-assed attempt at Spanish. “Cama hay yamo.”
“Good morning,” I said nicely. “May I help you?” She must
have thought that because I look Hispanic I mustn’t be able to speak English
well, even though I was clearly an employee of the California Department of
Motor Vehicles. Otherwise, why would she expect me to know the answer to her
question about whether it was legal to haul green bananas in the trunk of her
car? Well, that might not be exactly what she asked, but something just as wacky.
Now that I think about it, maybe I do look a little Latin
with my dark skin, dark hair, and long Salena Gomez bangs. But I’m actually
Greek. Or at least my grandparents are. My name is Yolanda Giannapolous.
Our reputation at the DMV precedes us. So the crowd behaved,
civilized, though most of them figured out they were going to be here a long while,
including those with appointments for a specified time. A muffled buzz arose as
those in line got acquainted with each other, sharing their still-tolerable
frustration. A confused gray-haired Asian woman who spoke limited English
engaged in conversation with a young Indian woman in an artichoke-green sari and a vermilion dot on her forehead. Their
command of English was mutually mangled. The only thing they could seem to
connect on was that the DMV sucked.
A hot young blond in clingy gray running shorts and a violet
tank top tried to help them out. In between,
she took slurps of coffee from her Starbucks Grande cappuccino. I was close
enough to catch a whiff of her dank odor. By the time she reached the front of
the line, those around her might wish she
had stopped to take a shower after her morning jog. But then she would have
missed her assigned appointment time, an offense
the DMV does not take lightly.
An interesting looking grease monkey from one of the nearby
auto repair shops joined the back of the line. I handed him a clipboard with a
form to fill out stating his name and the purpose of his visit to the DMV. His lips
gave me a charming smile while his eyes gave me the once-over. That always
builds up a girl’s ego, particularly at nine o’clock in the morning. The DMV is
a good place to work for a young woman who’s looking for some action. The
younger men are always on the prowl, with pickup lines nearly as suave as George
Clooney. Not! For laughs, my best friend, Nura, and I share the top ones every
day over lunch. But I have a boyfriend, Josh, who keeps me well-satisfied.
We’re getting married as soon as he finishes college next spring. Nura is a
different story. She’s mostly saving herself for a Muslim man her parents will approve
of, but once in a while, she scores and then shares every breathless detail
with me.
The people who walk through
our glass double-doors every day come in a scad of colors, sexes, shapes, and flavors. Most of them are nice. But every
once in a while, there’s an asshole. The assholes also come in all shades, sexes, shapes, and flavors. I’ve been here
long enough to sniff a skunk before I even see him. Just such a mammal strutted
in the door now, a boringly-brown-haired middle-aged man in a classy business
suit. He wasn’t wearing just any off-the-rack suit. No, this one was definitely
a custom-fit navy blue gabardine from someplace like Nieman Marcus. He
glamorized his get-up with a power purple tie and a blue pin-striped shirt.
This guy took one look at the long unmoving line and made a beeline for me, the clipboard on
my arm a sure sign of authority. “I have a nine-thirty appointment, miss,” he
fumed.
“End of the line, please,” I said, pointing with my finger, never
looking up from my clipboard. This was not going to be fun.
“You don’t understand. I have an appointment.” He enunciated
slowly, clear and loud, suspecting my English wasn’t too good. Or my hearing.
“Si señor,” I
answered. “End of the line.”
“I have a board meeting in an hour. I’m only here to remove
the lien from my car title.”
He touched my arm, threatening or pleading. I couldn’t tell
which. He dropped his hand when my hot glare moved from his flushed face to his
unwelcomed fingers. “All these people ahead of you have appointments,” I said.
“But I have a nine-thirty appointment, and it’s nine-thirty
now.” He looked down at his large, expensive watch, tapping its blue face.
I turned away from him and walked over to a confused Hispanic woman. I used every word of
Spanish I knew to explain how to fill out the form she would need to get her
driving permit. When I meandered back, Mr. Blue Suit came at me again. He took
out his wallet from his back pocket and held up a twenty-dollar bill. “Will
this help?” he asked.
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed to accept tips.”
“Let me speak to your supervisor,” he demanded, stuffing the
money back into his pocket.
“I am the supervisor,” I lied. His cheeks turned so red I
thought he was going to have a coronary. Something like that had never happened
in my line before.
“Do you know who I am? I’m Larry Winkle, president of Smiley
Ice.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr.
Winkle,” I responded, trying my hardest to look fearless, chomping harder on my
spearmint chewing gum.
“We’re the largest distributor of ice cream in the Bay Area.”
The strength of his voice asserted the importance of his position. I nodded,
unimpressed. Then I turned back to help a confused teenager.
My friend Nura manned the in-take desk these people in the
long line were queued up to see. She checked their paperwork and assigned them
to one of the twelve customer service desks. Some people around the office
called her Judge Judy because she passed judgment on every customer as though
they were defendants at trial. Others called her the Grim Reaper because of the
punishment she inflicted on those she found wanting, usually in the form of eternal
entanglement in the bureaucratic swamp. I hated to think what she would do to my
new friend Larry Winkle if he didn’t
change his attitude in a hurry.
The line was moving only a little faster, but there were still
seven people in front of him. I caught a last whiff of the blond female jogger
with the ponytail before Nura finished
with her and she moved on to her assigned service desk.
“Hey Nura,” I said before the next customer got to her.
“Don’t look up, but see that guy in the classy dark suit?”
“Ah, another asshole?” she asked. I nodded. She gave me the fetchingly
twisted smile I so adored. Nura ate self-important assholes alive.
The line had grown and now circled out the door onto the
sidewalk. Halfway back, a beautiful coal-dark woman in blue jeans held a
whimpering infant in her arms, trying to comfort it. I’m a sucker for cute
little babies. I want one of my own, but that’ll have to wait. Going to school
nights at San Mateo JC keeps me busy trying to get my associate degree. I want
to be a radiology technician and earn enough money to give my parents the new
Prius they’ve always wanted but can never afford. After that, Josh and I will
start saving for a house.
“Anything I can do to help?” I asked the woman with the
whimpering baby.
“She’s teething, I’m sorry she’s making such a fuss.”
“No problem,” I said. “What are you here for?”
“A photo ID.”
“Follow me,” I led her to the front of the line. Her abundant
gratitude alone would have made my day. But even better, the frustrated Mr. Winkle
glowered at me, showing his snarling teeth, helpless. I went around the other way so I wouldn’t have to contend
with him. He was no happier when he saw
me lead a frail old man to the head of the line. He shoved a small Hispanic man
aside and advanced toward me again.
“Do you realize thousands of children depend on me and my
company to deliver happiness to them every day?” Spittle sprayed from his rabid
tongue. He sounded as though he was quoting from the company’s advertising
brochure. “Do you people have any idea how sad they will be if they don’t have
their ice cream because I’ve been held hostage by the DMV?”
I hated to think I would be personally responsible for
making every kid in the Bay Area unhappy, but rules are rules. What could I do
but pray that Nura would bring justice?
The column inched forward minute by excruciating minute. Larry
Winkle stood apart, isolated, wanting no part of the humanity swarming around
him. He jiggled his iPhone in one hand and jiggled his car keys in his pants
pocket with the other. He bounced back and forth on his toes as though he had
to visit the men’s room. Finally, Nura motioned to the person in line right before
Winkle, a teenaged boy on crutches with a grungy cast on his right leg. He made
his way painfully, slowly toward Nura.
Winkle was next. I wanted to cover my eyes, but like a car
wreck, it’s hard to turn away. The moment Nura finished up with the teenager, Winkle
dashed toward her. “Wait!” she barked, holding up the palm of her hand. He
stopped dead. Then she took her time arranging some papers on her desk and
checking some imaginary forms. She pushed a few loose brown hairs back under
her hijab. “Next,” she finally called, beckoning impatiently at Winkle with her
extended hand.
Wouldn’t you know it. Just
at the moment of reckoning, an urgent call came over the loudspeaker for me to
report to the other end of the hall to pick up a bunch of unimportant new
customer forms. I was only gone for five minutes, but by the time I sprinted back, Nura had another client at her desk. I
raced to the double glass doors in time to see Winkle charge by, cursing out
loud, arms waving, sweating abundantly, threatening to call the governor.
“Hasta luego,” I called after him. “Have a nice
day.”
He kept walking until he reached the curb out front. That’s
when he saw his big shiny black Cadillac being towed from the No Parking zone.
Nura had passed her sentence. The pitiful wail emanating from Mr. Blue Suit
sounded like a lamb trapped in the jaws of a ravenous wolf.
When will they learn? You don’t mess with the DMV no matter
who you are.
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