I was forced to go the Motor Vehicles Department this morning.
The MVD is rather like death and taxes – you can’t put any of them off forever. A trip to the MVD is almost as unavoidable as an IRS audit, and almost as unpleasant.
But who am I telling? You all know this.
My latest foray into the wonderful world of dealing with state employees took the form of what I thought was a simple errand to get my address changed on my driver’s license. I had recently moved, and in a rare, law-abiding moment, decided to have my new address (which was in a much better neighborhood than my old one, and I wanted to flaunt it, snob that I am) placed on my license for all arresting officers to see. A quick trip, in and out. I just needed one of those little sticker gizmos to put on the back of the license, and I’d be all set.
I don’t know what turnip truck I just fell off of sometimes.
I arrived at the MVD at 10:00 AM sharp, thinking that I would beat the rush if I got there when it opened.
There’s that turnip truck confusion, again.
I joined a line approximately 247 people long and began my wait. Before I was halfway to the desk, I had read two novels and written the first three chapters of my own. I glanced up.
It was dark out.
At midnight, I was a mere ten people from my destination.
The more forward-thinking (and non-turnip truck riding) folks in the crowd had brought food and sleeping bags with them. There were several campfires burning and, if I listened carefully, I could hear someone playing a guitar. The faint strains of “Kumbaya” floated up from somewhere in the line behind me that now stretched back to the horizon.
At 2:00 AM, it was my turn.
“I’m here to get my address changed on my license,” I said, stifling a yawn.
The woman behind the counter regarded me with a gimlet eye, and then uttered the five words that no human being can hear and still have the courage to go on living.
“You’re in the wrong line.”