How to survive a day at the DMV
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“Fill this out and take it to Window 7.”
Guess where I was on Thursday. The IRS? No, don’t go there
anymore. Too spooky. The draft board? Nope, been there, done that.
The DMV? Ding, ding, ding ... we have a winner!
Yes, there I was, last Thursday, at the DMV office on 19th Street,
with my carefully folded license renewal form in hand, looking as
dazed and confused as everyone else. I could say I’d rather have a
root canal than go to the DMV, but that would be a lie. Going to the
dentist is still my number-one, clenched-fist, please-make-it-go-away
phobia.
Why is it so intimidating? I don’t know. Maybe because the moment
you step inside, you know this just isn’t a happy place. No one wants
to be here, everyone is stressed, which makes the people behind the
counters stressed, which makes you even more stressed, which is all
very stressful. Let me hasten to add, however, that things have
definitely improved at the DMV since I was there for my last renewal
five years ago, and don’t think we are not grateful for that long
interval between renewals because we surely are.
Not only is the DMV now open Saturday mornings, but they have gone
high-tech, thank you so much. You can actually make an appointment by
phone or with your little mouse, at www.dmv.ca.gov. Just follow the
prompts and you’ll end up with a bona fide appointment, just like the
dentist, which in my case was 0930, Thursday, Sept. 12. The appointed
ones get a number -- mine was F032 -- and a waiting area with nice
padded chairs in which they can await their fate. A
computer-generated voice -- a soft, pleasant woman’s voice -- calls
out numbers in a calm cadence. “Number B118 to Window 9, please.
Number D023 to Window 4, please.” It’s like an endless “The white
zone is for loading and unloading” announcement, only much more
pleasant. There’s also a video monitor above the waiting area with
numbers and their assigned windows for those who cannot hear or
understand the computer lady.
Speaking of hearing, one thing caught my ear. Every once in a
while a supervisor would stand behind the people at the counter and
say, “I’ve got a person-to-person. Who wants it?”
I have no idea what a “person-to-person” is, but it’s not good.
The people at the counter would sigh and roll their eyes until one of
them finally yielded and said, “I’ll take it.” I made a mental note:
don’t ever be a “person-to-person” -- ever. “Number F032 to Window
21, please.” That was me.
I use the same approach with workers in big government offices as
I do with customs agents and boarder guards. I’ve used it from
Vietnam, to Bulgaria, to the San Onofre checkpoint and it has never
let me down. Look them straight in the eye, never wear sunglasses,
don’t smile, don’t frown, don’t make small talk, in fact, don’t speak
unless spoken to. And the most important in my case -- which I have
printed in large letters on a mental Post-It inside my forehead,
don’t try to be funny. When someone with insignia on their collar or
a security badge around their neck stretches out their hand and says
“Papers?” -- “No thanks, I read them already” is not a good answer.
I arrived at Window 21, where a young man named Ali was finishing
up some loose ends from his last customer. Just then, a supervisor
appeared behind Ali’s back with a piece of paper in her hand. My
heart sank. “Please,” I thought, “not a person-to-person, not now.
You’ll get Ali tense and crankyand all weirded out. Give it to Window
20, or Window 8, anywhere but here.” I felt a rush of relief when she
dropped the paper beside Ali’s keyboard and walked away without a
word.
“How can we help you today, sir?” Ali said. I was dying to say
“You can help me get out of here, Sparky,” but I said, in a soft
voice to demonstrate my total submission, “License renewal.”
He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, played with his mouse a
little then said, “Fifteen dollars.”
I handed him a 20, he handed me a five. He held up two pieces of
paper. “This is your receipt (right hand.) This is your temporary
license (left hand.) Carry your temporary license with you at all
times when you’re driving. You’ll receive your new license in four to
six weeks.” He paused. I waited. Then I realized he wanted a
response.
“I understand,” I said.
Ali handed me both pieces of paper, but not before he punched a
hole in my old license, which went right through my cheek -- on my
picture, not my real cheek.
“Go to the ‘Photo’ line and show them your receipt. Have a good
day.”
I was thinking of saying “Thank you, the same to you,” but decided
to just go with “Thank you,” which I said quietly, looking directly
into Ali’s eyes. Things went pretty well at the photo line, no more
than five minutes and “flash” -- another one of those excellent
drivers license pictures that make you look like a frightened idiot
with bad hair in an abandoned mine. So when your time comes, and it
will, just try to relax. Remember, no smiling, no frowning, no
talking, and most of all, no funny stuff. You’ll be fine. I gotta go.
* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs
Sundays. He may be reached via e-mail at [email protected].
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