DMV-B

At 0804 by my chronometer, the security guard unlocks the door. I walk inside, and wait patiently at the sign that orders me to wait until called. I wait for thirty seconds. The embarrassment fades after twenty. The lady asks me what my business is, if i have a passport or birth certificate, then hands me a number. D400. Look at it, a thing of beauty. Issued at 8:01 A.M. by their clocks. I curse my chronometer for not conforming to the DMV standard.

I go to sit down, and wait patiently for a few minutes, until they call my number. C. sits down next to me. We have become DMV buddies. (Side note: I will never see C. again. Still, I miss those days when it was so easy to just sit down next to someone, become friends, and leave and never see them again, and it didn't matter. You just did it because it was the right thing. Now we're too wrapped up in the music on our iPods, the e-mail on our BlackBerries, the stories in the Washington Post.)

I walk up to the counter, and the gentleman is wearing brown-rimmed glasses and a haircut so short that when he leans over to read something, his shiny head resembles a chia pet after 2 weeks of sparse growth. He sports a medallion set with a purplish stone, and has left his second button unbuttoned to demonstrate that it matches his purply stone pinky ring. Also a thick silver earring which is actually stretching the lobe slightly downward; in another 200 years, it will pull the ear off.

Yes, this gentleman exudes class like cheap perfume.

We start with my driver's license, and I proffer the application, a proof of residence (a postcard with my old and new addresses on it), a passport, my Maryland driver's license (good gravy I look like I just got my first license ever. Medium-length hair is not my friend.), my social security card (I can remember "signing" it when I was four, and really just learned how to print letters. So blocky.), and something else. Oh, right, my heart.

C. gets called, and she's come to the carrel next to me. It's gotten to that awkward phase where we both want to get our stuff done, and don't really have anything to say to each other. Which is probably just as well, as most of our comments earlier were directed towards the DMV employees, not necessarily complimentary in their tone or nature.

Mr. Purply Stone gets up to handle some money for five minutes for Alfred knows what reason. When he returns, he finishes up the driver's license application. We move on to the title. I hand over an emissions test (for the car, not for me. I'm corked.), the application (one less tether to the oddest-shaped state in the lower 48), and the title (blue; when he told me I needed red, that blew.).

Yes, Maryland is a two-part title state. Think of it as Maryland: The State that Screws You Over. That's a two-part title right there. Strangely, though, I took it in stride, just asked what I should do to get it, and he told me there were several options. We talked a little more, and he invited me to come directly to him when I had all the information, that I would not need to wait in line the next time I came to the DMV. How considerate, and do not think I will not take him up on that offer.

At least I have the license. I turn around. It is 0820, and there are at least thirty people in the seats. I think they have just called D404. Over the intercom, some garbled name is called, which I cannot understand. They call the garbled name repeatedly over the next five minutes until I realize that, hey, it's me!

Every time I get a new license, I want to come up with the stupidest look I can, just to see if it will fly. Every time, I am rebuffed, except for this time, when I just forgot. And now, I am licensed to drive in Virginia, and vote in Virginia, and donate my organs in Virginia. Also, based on the picture, look like an idiot in Virginia.

As I leave, C.'s disappeared, but her car's still there. I wish her all the best. Who knows? Maybe Lady Surfer will break down, and when I take her in to the nearest shop, C. will be there bringing out the parts.

By the way, someone remind me to re-christen Lady Surfer if/when I title and register her in Virginia. I'm leaning towards Aerial, because the next breakdown will probably be serious enough to send me flying. That, or I'm head over heels for the old girl.