The DMV



“Now serving G-101 at window number eighteen. G-101.”

Oh good. I’m G-174. So only 73 people ahead of me. I might make it home in time for Conan tonight.

I approach the enormous black lady at the counter who looks like she’s got a real good attitude about life. She pretends not to see me for a full sixty seconds as she peals an old piece of scotch tape off the base of her monitor for no apparent reason. “You need a little Goo-Gone?”  I hilariously ask. She doesn’t respond at all. ”…I always carry some with me….” More loud silence. “Anyway… I’m number G-174, do you have any idea about how long I’ll be here?”

Like I’m the stupidest motherfucker she’s ever met, “Oh, you gone be here for at least two hour. You shoulda made a appointment. This the DMV.”

I don’t know why she felt the need to remind me that I was in the DMV, there were signs all around me. “I tried to make an appointment but the first available time was two months from now.”  I hung in there for another fifteen seconds or so until I realized she won, our time together was over and so I went back to my seat.

I’ve been driving with an expired license for the past 180 days or so. Sometimes drunk, sometimes high, but always worried I’m going to get pulled over and have to wrestle the cop to the ground, steal his gun, shoot him in the face, eat some of his flesh and move down to Tijuana to ‘lay low’ for a bit.

The thing with the DMV is the place is filled to the brim with the absolute dregs of society. There’s not one attractive person at the DMV, a lot of people are missing teeth and there’s a lady standing next to me who smells like a hundred dicks. Arrogant or not, I’m 100% sure that I’m better than everybody in the building and I should be receiving VIP treatment. I don’t know, maybe the Nazis were onto something, ya know?

Oh, the DMV is an excellent place to bring both your baby who is one week old and screaming constantly along with your two year old daughter who can’t sit still and is running all over the place with mud all over her face pulling the forms out of people’s hands. I want to hurt her.

“Now serving number G-102 at window number five.”

Every time that announcement is made I check my ticket as if I’m miraculously going to be next. I know I’m G-174, I just haven’t come to terms with it. I think somewhere deep down inside I actually believe that god is going to change my number to 103 or 104 right before I look down at it. You know, because I’m such a good person and all. “If you do that god I promise I won’t tell anyone that you did it, it’ll be our little secret and also I’ll start believing in you.” And then out of nowhere, to my surprise, it happened. MY NUMBER ACTUALLY CHANGED! Oh wait, no it didn’t, because I’m at the fucking DMV in Los Angeles. At 11:30 am. On a Monday. #myreality

It’s interesting to see who’s driving on the same roads as me and wonder why I’m not dead.  Every five minutes or so the same seventy-year old Korean man wearing a FILA windbreaker and a 2001 Lakers championship cap which looks like someone placed it on his head without him knowing it, comes up to me and points to a bunch of different forms in his hand while saying “Form, form, form…”  I direct him over to my fat black lady friend who was so helpful to me.

After 2 hours of constantly repeating the phrase, “I can’t fucking believe this,” under my breath, my number is finally, “miraculously” called. “Now serving number G-174 at window number eleven.” Thank you, god.

I get up there, pay my thirty-one dollars and they then move me over to another line, where they explain that I’ll be taking a photo for my new license today. What the hell did you just say? NO! I look like shit right now. I don’t want to be stuck with a busted picture of myself for the next 10 years. My kids will think I was a loser. They’ll take advantage of me and they’ll be disrespectful. Plus, if I’m ever in a fire, and my face is burning off they’ll see my license and be like, “this guy’s really attractive, let’s try harder to save him than we normally would.”

“I really thought I could keep my old picture.”
“No.”
“What if I email you a recent headshot I can forward you something right now off my iphone? Or is there a Glamour Shots nearby?”

SNAP.

“Wait I wasn’t ready.”
“NEXT!”
“No, I wasn’t ready, Miss, you didn’t say cheese.”
“We don’t say cheese, sir and we don’t retake the pictures, NEXT!
”NO!
“Go take your test.”
“Test? What test?”

THE HARDEST FUCKING TEST EVER.

At the top of the page in big bold letters it says, “3 OR FEWER ERRORS ALLOWED” (or you don’t get your license).  There’s a total of 18 questions! And none of them are ‘what do you do at a red light?’ This is an actual question taken from the test:

#17.  You must make a written Report of a Traffic Accident Occurring in California (SR 1) to DMV if you:
A.     Fail to pay your registration fees within 90 days of receiving your renewal notice
B.     Are involved in a collision and there is more than $750 in damages
C.     Allow a licensed driver from another state to drive your vehicle.

I mean, ‘A’ makes the most sense to me right off the bat because they might not have your information on file if you forgot to renew it, but then ‘C’ could work too. I’ve been in a few accidents and I’ve never made one of these reports before. I should probably keep that to myself. But then again, what the fuck is an SR 1? Am I the only guy in California who doesn’t know that? And as far as ‘B’ goes, what accident DOESN’T cost more than $750? Hmmm.  For ‘C’ I figure it’s gotta be THAT person’s responsibility to file a report, right? God, I wish I had my TI-82 with me, it had all the answers. I guess ‘A’ makes the most sense then. I’ll go with ‘A’

Wrong. Guess I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.

“Now serving G-175….”