The Department Of Motor Vehicles: Part II


This is the conclusion to my misadventures of getting my tags for my car. I wasn’t planning on this being a two-part entry but the first part of the story ended up being a lot longer than I had originally planned. Go back and read the first part. I went for an oil change and ended up spending over 300 dollars on my car. Pretty expensive oil change. This will be the last part. There is no need for a third. I promise. I will not stretch this out longer. The second day wasn’t as long as the first but it is still enough to talk about. Enough of me rambling. Let’s get to the story and finally let me get the tags to my car. I am determined to be that law-abiding citizen I’ve been craving so much.

When I left NTB, I was still needing my property tax records. I went to print them off but my printer was giving me some issues. I really dislike my printer. I should get a new one but really, who prints crap off anymore? Without the possibly of getting them printed off, I decided to stay home for the night and with the use of my store’s printer and internet, I’ll just access it from there. I really don’t want to head to the annex building to get the two forms I need. I don’t like it in there. It’s not as bad as them DMV but those ladies and usually that one guy are not very pleasant and would rather be somewhere else than at work.

I have everything I need. I double-check my insurance card to make sure it is up to date. I make sure my inspection sheet is with me and I make sure I have the copies of my property tax before I head to the DMV. You better have all your crap when you go in there. Don’t walk in without all the proper paper work. I know. I did it before and it isn’t pretty. Those people are not nice and don’t pity people when they forget the simplest of things. The last time I got my tags renewed, I left my insurance card in the car. The lady asked for it. I had already handed her my stack of required material but I had forgotten to grab my insurance card. She was not nice about it. She snapped at me and without any sorrow in her voice and without and sympathy, she just pointed to my stack of material and asked again where my insurance card was. It was in the car. I mentioned I would go grab it. That set her off. I guess I am the only person in the world to have ever forgotten something when they made their unwilling trip to the soulless place the DMV. She handed me my items and said to return with the item I forgot. As I left, she gleefully added with a touch of spite in her voice,

“You’ll have to get back in line. I can’t hold your spot. Return with your card and you can try it again.”

Thank you for rubbing salt in to my already embarrassing wounds. I walked in that place feeling like a person and when I had to return to my car because of a petty error, I left feeling small. I left feeling insignificant. That is the joy you feel at the DMV. That is the way these people treat you. They have no heart. They have no souls. They don’t care for you and don’t care what issues you’re dealing with. These people work at the DMV. They already know all life was torn away from their meaningless lives. If they have to suffer knowing that they chose a job that the employees are hated more than the folks at Westboro Church, then I don’t feel sorry for them. At least this time I didn’t have to deal with that. I had everything. I remembered it all. I needed to. I had to. I was not going to deal with that crap again. I don’t have good luck when I go to the DMV anyways. When I went there to get my license renewed, I had a scar just about my eye. It was a drunken night with a run in with a mechanical bull. I’ll tell you something. I do not have very good luck when it comes to the DMV.

Ha ha.. I'm 12.

I walk in the DMV. It is pretty crowded. I guess a lot of people are just as lazy and procrastinate just as much as I do. They are serving number 80. I walk up to the number machine to grab my ticket. Some dude who looks like a cross between an a-hole and a total d-bag mean mugs me as I walk to the the ‘take a number’ machine. Not sure what his deal is but if he’s looking for help on how not to be a complete tool, then he is at the wrong place. This is the DMV. I grab my number and chuckle. I have this smirk on my face while I return to my seat near the wall. I stare at the number and laugh. The a-hole/d-bag is still gawking at me. He doesn’t know. He has no idea why I am laughing hysterically in my head and grinning from ear to ear. If he pulled what I did, he would laugh too.

I put the number in my pocket. The guy, the same a-hole/d-bag will not stop staring at me. I wonder why. What did I do to get this guy to lock his eyes on me? Why won’t he be normal and avoid eye contact with people. It’s unsettling. I don’t like when people stare at me. I don’t even like looking in people’s eye when they talk to me and I don’t even like looking in their eyes when I talk to them. It’s not some dishonesty thing. I just can’t look people in the eyes without feeling weird about it. I am rambling. I did notice that while I held the funniest number imaginable in my hand, I noticed that the machine I went to wasn’t the right one. How can they be serving 80 when I am holding this hilarious number!? I think I made a faux pas. I pulled G69 from the licenses line. I wanted to take a number from the machine in the middle of the room. The machine in the middle of the room is for the people who need to renew their tags. I felt like an idiot. I even acknowledge my stupidity with Captain D-Bag as I walked over to grab the correct number and get placed in the correct line. Now all eyes were on me. Now all these procrastinations are looking down on me because I didn’t follow directions. The walk of effin’ shame…

I grab my number. I am 91. I sit back down. This should go quickly. I won’t have to wait long. I will just sit here and entertain myself with some Angry Birds. The room is clearing out. I listen as the ladies at the counter call out each number and as these people leave, I wait for the 91 to get called. I want my tags. I want to get out of there before the life from me is ripped out and I become like the ladies behind the counter. I wonder what is going through everyone’s head as they leave this place? You know they are ecstatic. You know the are celebrating a party in their head because they know they don’t have to deal with this place for a few more years. They are free. I wish I was one of them. I wish I already done and over with this place but I wasn’t. I still have to wait. They are only at 87 . At least it’s closer to 91 than it was when I first walked in this place. I just want my tags. I just want to be that law-abiding citizen I’ve been yearning for. Give me my tags and I’ll go away.

Not sure where to add this little nugget of joy but I did see a guy come in that I see every visit I make to the DMV. It isn’t really him I see each time but it people like him. I swear I see someone just like him all the time. He is that person who does come prepared. He makes sure he has every document on hand. If it dealt with his car, his truck, his RV, or whatever vehicle he drives, the papers are there. They are tucked inside this giant, overly stuffed, manila folder. This thing is held together with industry strength rubber bands. I was half-expecting him to come in with a filing cabinet in tote. I give him credit for coming to the DMV prepared. Maybe he too was turned away and sent to the back of the line because he forgot something like I did once before. It was a sight to see and I did roll my eyes and talk negatively about him in my head.

I am called up. The lady at the counter gives me no chance to even stand. She yells out my number numerous times. They were going to skip me if I didn’t run to the counter like a savage lion pouncing on a lonely gazelle. I hold the ticket with number 91 in the air, waving my arm back and forth. That’s right, people. I’m next. I approach the counter. I am greeted with a friendly smile and hello not by a troll-like woman with no soul but a pretty lady with a nice smile that even Biden would be jealous over. Why is she working here!? Why is this gal working here? Maybe she is gifted with outer beauty and cursed with an ugly heart. But, Damn! She isn’t an eyesore. The eye candy spoiled the further down the counter you went. It went Super Hot, Hot, Meh, Ugly, Troll. They may be all nice ladies but the gal that serviced me (and when I say ‘service’ I am in no way speaking of an innuendo) was nice on the eyes and I wish I had more papers to fill out. But no. Our time together was over quickly. She did ask for my phone number. Sure it was just for verification but she got it nonetheless. She got my number

and I got my tags.





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