My time in purgatory, a.k.a. the DMV
There are visions of the eternal that describe heaven as filled with many mansions surrounded by celestial music, hell as a destination where you spend eternity listening to rap music and asking why the air conditioning isn’t working and purgatory as an endless frustration, similar to that which can be found at the office of the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV.)
Case in point: I have a driver’s license, and even though it doesn’t expire until next June, I thought it might be a good thing to re-up now, pay the extra $30 and be more “with it” or at least be less “out of it” with one of those new enhanced licenses. The new licenses have an air of sci-fi modernity about them compared with my current license, which is basically laminated cardboard. The picture on my license was taken on or about 1990. My grandsons couldn’t figure out who the woman in the photo is, and I barely recognize that woman. I recognize the blouse I was wearing, which is still in my closet.
There is a DMV office in North Syracuse, one in Western Lights and another in Auburn. I have always been an advocate for the Auburn office. But, on this particular day, when I was in Syracuse for another reason less than a mile from the DMV, I elected to apply for an enhanced license at the Western Lights DMV. Was I brave? No, I just thought that if I drove to Auburn, the time it took would be equivalent to the time I sat in the DMV in Syracuse.
As I pulled into the parking lot, two healthy looking young men were confidently opening the door to the DMV when a gust of wind tore the sheets of paper out of their hands and distributed them in varying directions all over the parking area. Was this an omen?
I hesitated. I hadn’t committed yet. I was still in the car.
“Ann, you are here. Don’t be ridiculous. What could go wrong? You have all the documentation needed,” was the resolute pep talk that propelled me into the facility and the reception area, where I was given a form to fill out and the number U875 as a disembodied voice called, “U871 go to window 15, please.”
OMG! I still had to fill out this form and they were calling someone with a number only four away from mine. On the edge of panic, I raced over the instructions and filled out the form while the same disembodied voice called other letter and number combinations. U is only one of many prefix numbers. I didn’t hear another U for 10 minutes. U872 go to window 15, please.” The learning curve began.
My husband will attest to my patience, and, satisfied that I had the form filled out and that there really was no rush, I sat back and enjoyed people watching. The DMV is a great place to do that. Most everyone drives and must have a license. There were people there whose appearance made me sure that they danced to the same music as I did, while there were those who had just reached the age where the yellow and blue behind their ears hadn’t yet progressed to green.
There was one young woman with a baby in a pack on her chest and two little toddlers hanging onto her skirts. I speculated that she was there for a license, and that she probably drove an SUV … I mean, where would she put the kids and their car seats, if not in an SUV.
My parents put four children and two adults in a 1942 Ford, but that was then, and this is now. The only child seats were a parent’s voice telling one of more of us to stay seated or they would stop the car, turn around and go home.
I thought about the first child’s seat that we bought as parents. Our son was a toddler when Ford came out with an odd-looking contraption called a Tot Guard. We moved heaven and earth to get one. It was quickly outmoded and replaced by what would not have passed any contemporary safety check today. Our intentions, if not their applications, were good.
I remember, too, that we were cautioned to put the baby to sleep on his stomach lest he throw up and choke. Today, that would be considered disastrously wrong. Statistics prove that putting babies to sleep on the backs cuts the number of SIDS cases to practically nothing. We did it all wrong, and on our doctor’s advice.
Time, and ideas, pass, as was time at the DMV
I smiled, watching the young mother and the children. She was so calm. I wanted to tell her that my two are all grown, one with kids of her own, despite all that we did wrong.
I heard the voice call, U875 to window 15. Oh, joy, at last.
Well, not really. Window 15 is where they take your picture. Take your picture? Good grief! I didn’t even bother to check my hair. Remember that gust of wind? Well, I encountered others like it as I made my way from my car to the door of the DMV.
The person at window 15 asked me, with a half-apologetic voice after looking at the picture with a difficult-to-hide wince, “Do you want me to take it over?”
It was bad, on the edge of scary, but, heck, it was me.
“No, that’s ok,” I said. At least my grandsons will recognize me.
Back to my post as people watcher. There were two young men who were speaking a language that I suspect was from east of the Mediterranean. It could have been Arabic, but it also could have been Farsi, or Pashto or Turkish or Hebrew. They were having trouble figuring out where to go and asked the receptionist for directions in halting English. She used a lot of gestures toward the numerous electric signs that announced which number was to go to which window. You could see by their furrowed brows that this wasn’t working.
Then an older gentleman offered them a seat near him and made comments every time the voice made an announcement. I could see the young men gradually coming to some kind of understanding. I speak English and I was confused, so I wondered how hard it would be for me to deal with a similar situation if I didn’t speak the language. It was a frightening thought, but what a kind act to offer help.
Then, praise the Lord, I heard the call, “U875 to window 9, please. Gathering my stuff, I limped to the gates of licensure paradise … because that is the only way I can walk .. to window 9 and the angel who would grant me my boon, my flashy, enhanced license. I noted with some degree of anxiety that there was a sign under window 9 that said “trainee.” I quickly looked for the trainer, but, alas, no one even vaguely resembling such a person was in sight.
Should I ask? I didn’t want to annoy the trainee angel.
“Keep your mouth shut, Ann,” I said to myself.
I handed everything to the trainee. She looked over each item. “You laminated your social security card?” she asked.
“Uh, yes, well sort of,” I said. “It’s one of those pressure things. If you need to you can pry open the plastic sheets.”
“No, just wondering,” she replied.
She rubbed her fingers over the raised seal on my birth certificate. I made some lame joke about it being so old that they had to use a rock to imprint the seal. She gave me one of those eye rolls that says, “pitiful.” When she got to the marriage license, she looked at it, turned it over, ran her fingers around the edge and asked me for my marriage license.
“You’re holding it,” I responded.
“I mean the one with the raised seal.”
“This is the only marriage license we’ve ever had,” I said, making a passing reference to the number of years that we were married. That did nothing. I thought I might lighten the tense air that had arisen with another feeble attempt at humor, but her icy stare stopped me.
She took a deep breath, folded everything back into the now-folded-over form and told me to come back with a marriage license with a raised seal.
My response was, but my husband didn’t need to have a marriage license. Duh!
“He didn’t change his name.”
I left mumbling things that might have been in one of those middle eastern languages because if anyone understood me, well, there would have been repercussions.
Are you kidding? I had to do penance for changing my name. And, it will cost me more money. A female penalty.
To get to the promised land of an expedited license, I would have to go to city hall, pay $10 and get an authorized copy of my marriage license and then go back and wait some more, hoping that I have all the correct documentation.
Does this mean that I am going straight to heaven?
Not if the DMV is in charge.
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
