Aug. 05, 2003 - 4:27 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
This letter will be one, long story. Be warned. Get a large beverage. Get comfortable.
A new drivers license. A new birthday. While I believe the normal person would fear the latter over and above the former, I am the opposite. This is because the former necessitates a visit to a place that would rival a dentist’s office for sheer volume of pain: the Secretary of State.
I am, of course, unaware of how your state’s Secretary of State operates, but here in Illinois, it tends to be approximately five years behind in technology, though it believes soundly that it is five years ahead. This causes much confusion on the part of regular people and many exasperated sighs from those who work in this mishmash of technology on a daily basis. My first visit to the Secretary of State to obtain my first drivers license – replete with written and driving tests – was a harrowing nightmare. Of course, this was back in the day when horses were still a viable option for road travel. It was 1914. But the technology suggested 1909.
This morning, I ventured to the Secretary of State and, sure enough, it is 1998 all over again. The only thing missing was a preponderance of Monica Lewinsky jokes. I was given a number – B109 – and sent to sit in the waiting area. In the waiting area, I noticed an incredible number of old and/or African American people. Don’t know any significance behind it, but I noted it nonetheless as my eyes focused on the LED display that read out the numbers currently being served. The next one that came up: B141. Then: C232. The system was designed that you couldn’t really tell when or if you were to be called up. Then: B142. F399. A034. B143. Do you see the disturbing trend that I was making note of?
A half an hour later, the old and/or African American contingent was replaced entirely with young and/or stupid looking people. One had on her T-shirt the phrase “call me bitch in a bad way.” On the LED board, the following rattled by: C244. F416. A051. B180. Looking at my own number with disbelief and saying it over and over in my mind (“B109….B109….”), I began to structure a little speech I could give to the man who was directing traffic. When I got the bullet points together, I approached him.
“Excuse me. Um…”
“We don’t know.”
“Hmm?”
“We don’t know when you’re going to be called.”
“Ah, well that’s the thing. My number is B109. As you can see, it appears that I am not going to get called.”
“It goes around.”
“It…goes…around?”
“Yeh. It’ll start with B001 again.”
I looked at the faces in the waiting area, which were already morphing from young and/or stupid to businesslike and/or tired. “Ah,” I said, as if discovering the idea for the first time, “I see now! I think I was given a number that was already called.”
“Well, why did you come here?”
“To renew my license.”
“No – why did you come HERE? To this facility?”
“Um…to renew my license.”
“Why didn’t you go to the Express facility?”
I couldn’t really answer that, as I was unsure of the question’s bearing on my receiving a bad ticket. “Well…good question…”
“Do you have your license?”
“Yes. I had to show it in order to get this old ticket. Do you want to give it to someone else?”
“Sir?”
“The ticket. Do you want to give the ticket to someone else so they can wait for an hour and not be called?”
There is a line that is drawn in the sand of my mind that says, be polite always, but if you encounter brain-dead worker bees, it is best to talk down to them. It is not the best theory on how to negotiate your way through bureaucracy, but it is one that seems to take over.
I stomped out and stiffened my shoulder against all the tourists who somehow think Chicago is someplace to look at. Boom, boom, boom. Look out. I’m a tough guy. Boom, another shoulder, boom.
I made it to the Express Facility, which was located in a large building. Seeing no apparent sign, I walked up to the guard who was on duty. “Morning. The Drivers License facility…” I leaned my words toward him, hoping he would pick them up, reassemble them and hand them back to me with a clear direction.
“What are you trying to do?”
I blinked. The words “plant a bomb” creeped up into my throat, but I swallowed them in favor of “Renew…my…license.”
“That hall, down the stairs, sharp right, another right.”
At the new facility, I turned on Show Biz Vincent, the persona who is all smiles and nearly 100% artificial. I batted my eyes at every single woman behind the counter. I said “good morning” by dragging out my “r” so as to imply it could be much better if only they would come away with me for a torrid romance in the Bahamas.
Twenty minutes later, I had my license. And I’m not that ugly in it.
Then somewhere in the middle of McDonald’s cheeseburger, a filling on the right side of my mouth crunched into little pieces. Sounded like a pickle. It wasn’t. Oh…what adventures await me at the dentist!!?
Enamelly,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
