I’ve had a bad week.
Wednesday night after work, I was pulled over for speeding. That was my fault. I was doing 45 in a 25, and the cop was nice enough to give me a warning even though I deserved a ticket. Because there were other problems; I moved to Pennsylvania from Michigan at the end of February and I hadn’t gotten a new driver’s license or transfered my car registration. Again, my fault. I was a student for a long time and I’d lost touch with the reality of changing the car registration when you move somewhere for good. Also, I didn’t have my current insurance cards in the glove box. So the cop was very, very nice in only giving me a warning and giving me five days to correct all those problems. If I was angry at all Wednesday night, I was angry at myself for having been so forgetful.
Yesterday, I had to work, but I had today off. I declared it the beginning of Operation No Traffic Fines and set off for the insurance office to get Pennsylvania insurance, transfer my life insurance from my dad’s vast multi-policy complex and get renter’s insurance. Busy day. The insurance lady and I sorted out all the stuff I did and didn’t want on my policies (Hard to wrap my head around – Michigan is a no-fault auto insurance state, so while getting insurance is much more expensive, it’s also much less complicated.) and it came time to settle the account.
I pulled out my credit card, because I’ve done business with this company (We’ll call it Provincial Agricultural Unit) in three different offices since I was 16, and they’ve all taken credit cards. Nope, not this office. Check or money order only. Okay, I have my checkbook, but I’m having a lean month and I have just enough left to pay the rent – and I had to get small loans from dad and granny to get that much. But I have to have Pennsylvania insurance to get a Pennsylvania license and registration, and I have to have Pennsylvania license and registration to keep from paying huge traffic fines and getting points on my license, no matter whichstate it’s from. So I ground my teeth and wrote the check. First things first and all–the rent money can be sorted out later.
One down, two to go. And those can be taken care of at the same time at the DMV (insert ominous music here). But perhaps that ominous music is too much foreshadowing, because I was blissfully innocent of DMV horrors. In Michigan, you go to the Secretary of State’s branch office for that stuff. In my (medium-sized) hometown, if there’s a wait at all, it’s less than 10 minutes. You do your paperwork and you’re on your way. So I wasn’t worried. silly little girl that I am. The lady at the insurance office checked a Web site for me and said the DMV would be open until 4:30. It was 3:45, so there were no worries.
As I walked to my car, I pulled out my cell phone to tell my mom, a big MASH fan, that my new Provinical Agricultural Unit agent’s name is Frank Burns. She got a kick out of that, and we got to chatting as I merged on to I-80 to drive a few towns over and go to the county DMV. But I was distracted and new to the area besides and took I-80 east instead of west. It didn’t hit me that I’d gone the wrong way until I was crossing the Delaware Water Gap into New Jersey. Argh. So I turned around at the next exit, only to wait in the mile-long backup of cars full of New Yorkers going to their cabins in the Poconos. They were slowed down by the tollbooth, see. Of course there’s a financial penalty for my being an idiot at this point. Because the situation is now escalating. The toll bridge is a tangible representation of the Frustration Event Horizon, (a phenomenon I’m surprised Hawking has neglected to tackle, insomuch as he is able to “tackle” anything.) and there is no turning back.
So I got to the DMV. Huh, I thought. There sure are a lot of cars here for a Friday afternoon. Well, it’s a big building and there are probably other state offices out here.
It’s cute sometimes when I’m wrong. This was not one of those times. The DMV in Monroe County, Pennsylvania is nothing like the Secretary of State’s office in Monroe County, Michigan. There was a line of people waiting to get a number. There is a long line waiting to have driver’s licenses issued. About 60 people are waiting to talk to clerks about othe issues. With a sinking feeling, I realized I’d have to wait in both groups before I could complete my transactions and go on my merry way.
Immediately after I walked in, a PennDOT guy stepped behind me, pulled down the shades on the windows and locked the door. Great, I thought. Hostage situation. I wonder if I’ll move up in line if captives are shot. No such luck; it turned out that the Web site lied, and the DMV actually closes at 4:15 on Fridays. Lucky me, last one in the door. Time to get this show on the road.
You’re not allowed to just take a number; there’s a triage guy you have to talk to who assigns you to a different line and hands you your number. (It’s a union job if ever I saw one.) After ten minutes, I was on deck to talk to Captain Triage.
The woman in front of me needed to transfer her license from another state. She had her old license, her birth certificate, several utility bills and a stamped letter that had been delivered to her at the address shown on the utility bills. I gave her mental applause for having been so thorough – you never know what forms of ID will be required.
Captain Triage did not join the ovation. “I can’t do anything for you today,” he said. “I have to see your Social Security card. No exceptions,” he said, as the lady protested that she was in the process of having a new one issued and had brought many, many other forms of ID, many of which listed her SS#.
“I can’t do anything for you,” Captain Triage repeated. “Come back when you get the card.” The lady sighed, and as she gathered up her paperwork, CT added, “Whatever. We’re actually doing you a favor by not requiring form #12345blahblahblah, which you have to get from the state.” The lady was obviously taken aback, as was I. “No,” she said. “You’re not doing me any favors.”
“Whatever,” CT said again as she left. “Next.”
I squared my shoulders and made a concious decision to be nice to this guy. After all, I thought, it’s the end of a long, hot day for him. I’ll be nice and this will all be over with soon. Maybe I could even get a vanity plate that read “POLLYANNA.”
“Hi,” I said. “I need to transfer my car’s registration from Michigan and get a new license. Here’s my Pennsylvania insurance, here’s my car title.” I handed him the receipt from the car title process, a document that worked for registration in both Missouri and Michigan, because I’m still paying for the car and the bank has the actual, physical title.
(I must pause here and explain Captain Triage’s voice. I can’t properly translate into words the amazing amount of boredom, snark, snippiness and disdain that infused his every syllable. The rolling eyes and the holier-than-thou stance were bonuses that should aid you in creating your mental audio/physical portrait of this shining knight of a government employee. Now, back to our narrative.)
“This won’t work,” he said, handling the paper as if a homless man had just blown his nose on it. “You’ll have to fill out this form that we’ll fax to the title company and then they have to mail us the title.”
“Okay,” I said, smile taking on a slightly clenched appearance. “I’ll get the number at home this evening and fax it to them. Now, about the driver’s license…” But that line of inquiry was squashed, as CT had more to say.
“Can’t fax it from home. If the original fax wasn’t sent from our machine, we won’t accept the title.” I stopped smiling and starting actively clenching my jaw.
“All right. I’ll get the fax number and we can just do that right now.” The trusty and ever-useful cell phone came out my purse and I made ready to call someone with a computer to find the info for me.
“No cell phones in the building,” droned CT as he reached over the counter for my wrist to stop me. I am not a person who enjoys or invites any physical contact with strangers, so I pulled away, a shocked look on my face, earning me a full-body eyeroll from CT, a designation that, at this point, was changed simply to the much catchier “Dickhead.”
"Please don’t touch me. Is it all right if I step outside and take care of this, then?
“Go ahead, but we won’t let you back in. Office is closed.”
“Even though your posted hours go until 4:30? It’s not 4:30 yet.”
“Lady, you can’t come back in. Come back tomorrow with the numbers and we’ll try to fax it.”
“Right. Whatever. Driver’s license.”
“Got your old license?”
“Yes.”
“Social Security card?”
“Yes.” The standard two forms of ID produced, I declared mental victory and steeled myself for the next queue. But Dickhead was not done with me.
“Birth certificate?”
“No.” (At this point, insert the sound of a needle scratching across a record, abruptly ending the music.)
“No birth certificate, no license.”
My birth certificate is in Michigan; it just wasn’t something I thought to pack during the rush of moving. “And I suppose it has to be an original and a fax won’t do,” I said, having only recently discovered my true psychic gifts."
“Absolutely not.” Ahhh, I thought. I see. I only needed two forms of ID to get a loan to pay for the car, but I’ll need three forms of ID and the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West to be legal to drive the car. Silly of me not to have guessed.
Dickhead took a look at me and turned the condesention up to 11. “You should have known all this; every state requires your title and your birth certificate.”
“Buddy,” I said, because I figured he could probably press charges or have me towed if I went ahead and called him “Dickhead” like I really wanted to. “You want to step out to the parking lot and see the Michigan license plates that prove otherwise? Or won’t they let you back in the door, either?”
“Whatever.”
“And there’s no way to expedite any of this?” I explained the problem with the traffic warning and the five-day deadline.
“The title has to come in the mail. I have to have the original birth certificate.”
“So you’re saying that a cop, employed by the state, issued me a warning with requirements that, due to the state’s own laws and the laws of time and space, cannot be met?” You fucking cockmonger, I failed to add.
“Yes. Exit’s over there.” This is when I started trying to set him on fire with my mind. I knew that if physically lit a match and threw it in his hair, I would probably get an actual ticket this time.
Tonight, when the next police shift starts, I will call the officer who issued the warning and sweetly explain the situation and beg for leniency. Maybe it will work. Or maybe the cop will be schooled in insane troll logic and say I’ll have to pay up and take the points.
I will spend Saturday morning back at the DMV to fax the paper that must be sent from the Holy Fax Machine of PennDOT. I’ll bring my checkbook to balance while I’m in line and think about where the rent money will come from, now that I’ve bought insurance on a car that I’m not really allowed to drive because of Pennsylvania’s perhaps overly-stringent motor vehicle laws.
And I will also bring a lighter. You know, just in case that pencil-dicked, smegma-encrusted, slime-sucking, mother-humping, puppy-kicking, sheep-raping, micocephallic fucktooth is working triage again.
