Train Wrecks and Bureaucracies

Yesterday Louise and I went to renew our driver's licenses. Louise's expired in September, mine in October, and the nuisance of rounding up documents, interrupting well deserved late-morning sleep, missing lunch with friends all made the trip to the DMV even more distasteful. But we decided on Tuesday night that Wednesday, yesterday just had to be the day. Would we want to be arrested for driving without a valid license? Would we want to see our only car towed away to some unknown impound lot while we were left to walk several miles to home? Would we, heaven forbid, want to re-take our driver's test?

So I collected a bag full of documents, more than enough proof of address, proof of citizenship, proof of humanity to get us through the hurdles that the DMV had so lovingly set up to trap any who proved to be less than red-bloodied Americans within a small margin of error.

Once at the HIV, er, DMV, we filled out paper work that asked about diabetes, peripheral vision, medications that might impair driving. I noticed with some irritation that it did not ask about cell phones, texting, and reading books or newspapers while driving. We were simultaneously called to counters across a very large room, and since I had the documents, Louise would call across for proof of Social Security, proof of address, and proof of citizenship.

I whizzed through the paper work with a friendly woman at a counter, passed the eye test, even the peripheral vision test, and then she said, "I can't issue you a license. Your name is in the national data base for an offense in New York. Have you lived in New York?" Yes, from 2006 to 2008. Do you know why there would be a hold on your records? No. I had an accident, and I was found not guilty. That shouldn't be on the records. But my imagination flashed to some courtroom flunky tossing my acquittal in the garbage and stamping "FELON" on my file.

Well, the kindly DMV woman said, "Here's the number for the New York Department of Motor Vehicles. You'll have to straighten this out with them before I can issue you a license. I saw myself slogging through an enormous swamp filled with alligators, man-eating catfish, and mermaids who jumped on you and held you under water. The New York traffic division is one to be avoided at all costs. Having your car towed in New York City means it will be dumped in one of half a dozen city lots and you will have to slog through the whole mess to find your and pay about $500 to get it back.New Yorkers who have gone a round or two with the DMV and want to show you their scars.

Louise came home with her temporary permit, liking her picture. I came home with dread of calling the New York traffic gorillas. "Just take your laptop and sit in a comfortable, quiet place with some treats you can eat. You'll be on the phone a long time," she said. It was good advice. I took two phones into my man cave in the basement, along with my laptop. Two phones, because I doubted there was enough power in a fully charged phone to last through what I was facing.

I dialed the number. A voice comes on giving me eight options. I hit number 8. Another voice comes on giving me six more options. I hit number 6. Finally a third menu comes on (I find it despicable that menu means both food and slimy bureaucracies.) I hit number 3. The phone goes dead.

Start over. Same routine. The phone on number Three rings. Oh, yes, sir, I'll forward you to an office that can look up your records. The music is playing loudly in my ear, and I attempt to adjust the volume on my phone. The line goes dead.

I am now about an hour into this damn thing and haven't made an inroad. I go through the three menus again. And this time, I get a living breathing human being--after about a 30 minute wait. I check the battery time left on my phone. Time to switch. I don't want to lose the connection because of a battery. The friendly lady says I need to verify my address. Salt lake City, I say. No, that's not it. Um, Provo, I say. No, that's not it either. I picture a woman with a big smile and long teeth. OK. New York City. No, that's not it. I'm desperately scrolling through any place we might have stayed. Motel 6, Hampton Inn. Sandy, Utah, I say. Yes. That's right. Do you know the address. My head clears and the correct address pops in.

Now, she says, I can check your record. While waiting I begin composing a limerick in my head. There once was a New York trucker. That felt promising.
After 10 or 15 minutes, she returns to the phone. "When did you leave New York?" she asks. I detect a dagger in her voice. In 2008, I say. "Well you didn't cancel your car insurance when you left, and it was cancelled." I was now trying to register what she was saying. Would I owe thousands of dollars in back insurance bills? "So what do I have to do?" I asked. Well the fee for leaving New York without canceling your insurance is $25.00. "I'll pay, right now," I said. "You can pay me directly with a credit card, which has a $5 handling fee plus a $19 fee for--"  I don't know what. Or, I can walk you through a computer program, and you can pay online.

"Oh, please, please," I beg. I am now groveling like a dog on its back waiting for a tummy rub. "But don't leave me until it's done, OK?" "I won't leave you," she says. And she walks me through a 500 step click here click there program, and finally I'm told that I have cleared. And I am free. Free at last. Thank God almighty I am free at last. And the State of New York sent me the nicest confirmation email saying that I had paid. And I just love the picture of the nice lady that came with it. I just love bureaucracies who show they care about you.

Have any of you dear readers had a flirtation with a bureaucracy?