This afternoon, I attempted a feat that’s probably as difficult (and idiotic) to do as holding your breath underwater for nine minutes. I foolishly ventured to the DMV in Harlem on my lunch break for what I was hoping would be a "quick" visit to register our car. But as we all know, the words "quick" and "DMV" are rarely--if ever--muttered in the same breath. Optimistic nevertheless, I gathered all of the essential paperwork, filled out all of the forms, and drummed up the confidence required to face the staple panel of dour-faced, hating-life DMV employees.
I should have turned around after I lost my subway fare upon attempting to board a downtown train (I'm a creature of habit, I guess). But I righted myself and eventually made it to 125th Street. The DMV sits just steps from the train station--making the location probably the only convenient quality of the entire operation.
I hiked up the stalled escalator (yet another sign my trip was doomed) and faced two doors, one to my right and one to my left. There were no signs telling me where to go, so I blindly chose the left door. I was greeted by a gleaming white room split by a quiet line of about 30 people. Not bad, I thought as I hopped into the line and pulled out the latest issue of Runner's World to keep me occupied. But I was soon distracted by the hubbub of activity surrounding me.
I listened to the ambulance-chasing attorneys stationed outside the line promising to knock off $500 and all of the points! from people clutching what I can only assume were major speeding tickets. According to the big sign on the wall, attorneys aren't allowed to solicit business at the DMV. But they were still wheeling and dealing--and collecting $300 deposits for their work.
I held my breath as a fist-fight almost broke out between the two men behind me. Lots of F-bombs were thrown--but thankfully no punches.
Then, finally, it was my turn. I took a deep breath, procured my paperwork, and stepped to the counter. I'd like to register my car. I said, smiling as sweetly as possible. The woman in front of me rolled her eyes. Bad sign. What is this you're giving me? She shot back, pointing to my forms, piled neatly on the counter. My confidence whooshed out of me like air escaping a deflating balloon. Well, errr, ummm, I, umm, need to register. I hardly got the words out before she shooed me away with a swat of her manicured hand: You need to go to the OTHER room for that.
The OTHER room? There was another room? How could I have missed that? I grabbed my papers and marched away from the line, away from the angry men and the sleazy lawyers. I stepped toward this magical other room--the door to the right that I initially avoided--which turned out to be the main DMV. Apparently, I was in the line to pay for violations. And of course there was a line as long as the one I just came from just to get a number so I could--you guessed it--wait in yet another line which at the moment was about 200 people deep.
Now this was the DMV I was expecting. If I had a day, maybe two, to spend there, I'd have taken a number and taken my place in line. But the clock was ticking and I had to be back at work, so with a quick turn of my heels, I was back on the downtown train, defeated by the DMV once again...
The battle resumes tomorrow.
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