The Plan Goes Awry: Perdition Thy Name is the Department of Motor Vehicles

The day started innocently enough. Bright sunshine flooded into the apartment chasing away the gloom that had gathered the day before when snow fell and the skies seemed in mourning.

I had a plan you see. First, I would spend some of my cash buying into the lottery. I know, it has all the appearances of a sucker bet, but to be honest, given the state of morality found on Wall Street and the feral nature of the hyenas who run modern brokerages and banks, it seems to me a safe investment. Besides, if I do lose the money, at least a chunk of it goes to the department of education here in Oklahoma, not toward some greedhead's yacht upgrade.

Then it would be on to the old cigar store. Yes, I needed about six of those La Flor Dominicana Cabinet Oscuros. They are large, dark, and blunt with oily wrappers and they do pack a punch when smoked, yet are smooth to the finish.

Next I would venture to the local tag agency to get my drivers license renewed and finally to a noon Ash Wednesday service where I'd take communion and receive the imposition of ashes.

When all that was done I'd swing home and get to work on the blog. I'd write something fantastic. It would be a post that found the perfect combination of wit and outrage, or at least would be less tiresome than my average self indulgent screed.

Yes, that was the plan. A wager, some smokes, the government, then God and at last the keyboard. What could be more American? It would be a perfect day.

Initial stages of the itinerary went smoothly. Then I stepped into the tag agency. At first things there seemed to be going swimmingly. Incredibly, no one was in line in front of me. I paid my money, filled out the required form both front and back, signed and dated it. I sat down in front of the very large camera that is linked to a huge computer screen and the clerk began clicking away.

That is when it all went wrong.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Howard," she said. "They are telling me I can't issue you a drivers license." I politely inquired why, because after all I am a polite bastard. "They don't ever tell us, you'll have to go to a DMV testing site so that they can approve you." She began to fidget nervously, perhaps worried that I was one of them and capable of extreme and deadly violence. I mean everyone knows it doesn't take much nowadays to trip some loon over the edge, driving him into a wildly murderous spree. She quickly refunded my money and told me that I'd need to take along my current drivers license, social security card, and either my original birth certificate, or a passport. As I started to leave she said, "Oh and you need to make sure to set aside a couple of hours to be there. Have a nice day."

I turned to see if I could detect the thin acidic smile of sarcasm, but she seemed completely sympathetic.

By now it was closing in on 11:30am. Church was a lost cause. I grabbed a fast food burger and soft drink to go, stopped by the place to pick up my passport and social security card and headed up to Edmond, Oklahoma, U.S.A.

I entered the testing facility and took a number. It was 621. The electronic board hanging near the ceiling said they were now at number 590. It was a bare and dreary place, the very definition of dingy. It was also filled to near capacity with a number of worried looking Hispanic sorts, a few Indo-Pakistani types studying their driver's manuals intently, and a whole bunch of sullen kids who looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. It was, at that moment in my life, 12:10pm, Wednesday, February 13th, 2013

At 12:30pm the board beeped loudly and switched to 591. One of the Hispanic guys got up and disappeared behind a large wall that separated the officials from the waiting public. For all I know they dragged him away in chains, because honestly I never saw him emerge from that closed off space. I will say this, if that is what is what really happened, they did it professionally and quietly. No one heard any scuffling or screams.

Around 1:15 or so a young blond princess came walking in, took a number and then a look at the board, which, at that point, was sitting at 597. You could see the anger and disbelief spread across her face. It was immediately obvious she didn't have time for this sort of nonsense and she certainly couldn't be bothered to sit in a room with an awful bunch of losers like us. She stormed back behind the wall to tell the people in charge just that. I heard a very loud male voice say, "If you have a question stand over there and I'll get to you in minute."

Children, here is the first lesson in dealing with low level bureaucrats. To begin with you must understand that they are generally a bored lot who don't like people to begin with. If you piss them off by trying to make yourself the exception to the rules, they will fuck you over so badly you won't be able to walk for days. This is a fact of life.

I have no idea what she said to the guy behind the hidden counter, but his response was, "You'll just have to wait along with everyone else. We will probably get to you before we close." Closing time at that station is 4:45pm. The horror and impossibility of the situation didn't take long to sink in. She stomped out in what we used to call a huff. I glanced across the aisle at a black guy. Our eyes met for a second and we both smiled grimly.

To make a long story even longer, the woman at the tag agency was pretty close. Thanks to a number of people in line ahead of me who gave up and left in disgusted frustration I hit the counter at 2:20pm, only slightly longer than her estimate. I handed over my social security card, my passport and my drivers license.

"You've heard of the no fly list?" the vaguely faceless man asked. I said I had. "Well now there is a no drive list and unfortunately it isn't very exact. Someone out there who has the same name as you and the same birthday, or something close to it, has some outstanding warrants and is barred from getting or renewing a license."

"Warrants for what?"

"Oh it could be anything." He ran all the numbers through the great computer, took my photo, an electronic fingerprint and at last cleared me of any and all wrong doing. He stamped a form and told me to take it back to the tag agency so that they could issue me my license.

I trudged back to the tag agency where there was now a line. I took another number, this one 478. They called for 470 right after I tore it off the dispenser.

I got home about a little after 3:30 pm and immediately fixed myself the worlds largest gin and tonic. As I sat on the sofa sipping at it I was haunted by the final words of advice given to me at the DMV. "In four years go to the tag agency to renew. If whoever this is hasn't cleared up his problems they'll send you back to us."

Now there is something to look forward to.

Just as a coda to this dreadful little odyssey, I have a message for you, Sid Howard, you vile sonofabitch. I don't know where you are, but if I ever find you, I'll get you for putting me through all that yesterday. That is right, buddy I'm going to introduce the side of your head to my Louisville Slugger. Keep that in mind the next time you step outside.

And for God's sake pay your tickets some time soon!

sic vita est

2-14-13