The Bureau
10:00
I hoped to miss the early rush and sneak in and out unscathed. The parking lot tells me my hopes are stupid. I wedge my vehicle into one of only two remaining parking spots and step out into the 90-degree heat. I retrieve my bag and sigh heavily. It has to get done, I remind myself, forcing away my irritation at having to be here.
10:05
I push “Driver’s License” on the touch screen and a little slip of paper spits out of the slot. Number 50. My arms are covered in goose bumps. The air conditioning must be set to “arctic”. I maneuver my way into one of only a few open seats. There are 6 windows facing me. Only two are occupied by employees. A screen displays that number 24 is currently at Window 1. Shit.
10:30
Why did I forget my mask? The man next to me has a phlegmy cough and runny nose. He doesn’t cover his mouth as he hacks into the air. The same two employees are helping the same two people as when I arrived. I contemplate my existence. Why did I choose to do this while fasting? I am starving. There is no WiFi. My texts only go through occasionally. I can’t occupy myself by scrolling on my phone. I pull my book from my bag and attempt to read. Someone has farted.
10:45
One more employee appears. An automated voice blasts, “Number 25 to Window 2”. No one moves. The message plays again, then is quickly followed by “Number 26 to Window 2.” Well, at least they don’t mess around if someone isn’t there. Progress!
11:00
My book has lots of food descriptions. Steaming borscht, lamb pierogies, pots of coffee. I may not make it. It has been 36 hours since my last meal. Sitting here may be the undoing of my willpower. I remind myself that I cannot be hangry when I finally get to the window. If I’m a jerk, they can make me retake the driving test since my license expired. Yes, that’s right. Somewhere during the summer of fun, while I hauled kids to the beach, New York, friends’ houses, forced family fun and back-to-school shopping, disorganized me let it happen. Adding insult to injury, because I turned mid-forty-ish, (okay I turned 45 which is exactly mid-forties), I have to get a vision test. I can’t just do this stupid process online. And that is why I am here, spending one of the last beautiful days of summer, freezing my tail off and fantasizing about food.
11:15
Are my lips blue? I may have frostbite. I contemplate running to my car to get a blanket. But what if the next 20 numbers have all left and I miss them calling mine? I’ll have to start all over. The hacking man next to me has left, only to be replaced by wheezing halitosis guy. His rancid breath fills the room, and he talks loudly, complaining about how long everything is taking. I can’t focus on my book. The man keeps taking videos of the empty windows where employees could be standing. He doesn’t notice the signs every six feet prohibiting filming to protect people’s privacy.
11:20
Number 30. Thank God, numbers 28 and 29 gave up and left. In their place, infant twins have joined us, both screaming. I give the mother a sympathetic look. An elderly man is shouting his personal information through Window Number 1. He can’t hear what he’s being asked so he just spills his guts, yelling everything at the woman-in-training behind the glass partition. But he kindly makes a five-dollar contribution for organ donation, prolonging his visit by at least ten minutes.
11:30
We are cruising, now. Number 38. Hopefully five out of the next ten numbers have given up and left already. Hell, hopefully ten out of ten have. But then- no! A return customer? What? Number 22? This can’t be happening. My thighs are stuck to the vinyl chair. I am gagging from halitosis guy, who is taking more videos. A woman behind us loudly points out the signs to him.
11:45
Number 40 doesn’t have the correct paperwork and keeps trying to pull it up on his phone, which isn’t working because there isn’t any service in this godforsaken igloo. I am nearly curled into a ball for warmth, my vinyl-stuck-thighs holding me in place. Number 42 wants a nighttime restriction removed from his license. He brought a note from his optometrist. Halitosis guy loudly opines about government inefficiencies. A woman in front of him wonders how all the terrorists get identification so easily. Please, please, please don’t make me listen to conspiracy theories. I’m so hungry, I might not be able to bite my tongue. Hmmm…would biting my tongue make me less hungry?
12:00
WILL I EVER BE SAVED FROM THIS LIVING HELL??? I’m certain I’m hypothermic and likely hypoglycemic and hypothesizing about why anyone would want to work in the bowels of misery that comprise the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. And why don’t all these people waiting have other things to do on a Tuesday morning? And why does my nose have to be so sensitive. The halitosis is slowly killing me from holding my breath. At this rate, I’ll likely die of asphyxiation just before I die again of hypothermia. Unless my bladder bursts. That’s also a possibility. All the water I’ve been drinking while fasting requires frequent trips to the bathroom. But I can’t deal with that now because we are on number 46. 46!! Will it be an hour before they call number 50 or thirty minutes? What’s the over/under? The suspense is killing me. I don’t think I’m going to make it. But I have to. After two hours, I cannot walk away now. That would be unforgivable.
12:10
It’s happening! It’s really happening! My number is being called. I have already packed my things in my bag in preparation for this momentous occasion. My paperwork is organized and in my hand. I peel my legs from the chair, ignoring the embarrassing noise it makes. Everyone is eyeing me with envy. As I approach the counter, I smell the lunches that the employees are enjoying in the break room. I am salivating as I sit down, plastering a smile on my face.
“Have you been waiting long?” the woman asks.
“Oh, just over two hours. No big deal,” I say while rubbing my arms and tapping my feet for warmth. “Do I have everything I need?” I slide the paperwork over to her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says in response to my wait time. “Yes, it looks like you have what you need.”
She takes an agonizingly long time looking over everything. Then she asks if it’s ok if she takes a call from her daughter.
I grit my teeth and say “Of course,” so sweetly my face may crack from the forced smile. I am literally shivering. My bladder is about to burst. I need out of there.
She returns from her phone call, then can’t find some orange sticker. The employee in the next cubicle interrupts for some help. Finally, she returns, stopping briefly to text on her phone. She locates the sticker and puts it on the back of my expired license, extending it’s validity by 60 days.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Now for that vision test and a new photo. Do you wear glasses?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you need them for your test?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Ok. If you fail the first time you can try again with the glasses on.”
“Great.”
“I’ll meet you at the end.”
I know the drill. I’ve been watching people do this for hours. I stick my face in the vision test equipment. I pass on the first try. No one needs to know that I had to close one eye and then the other to make sure I was correct.
At last, it’s time for my picture. I check myself in the little mirror hung on the wall at an unpleasing angle. It’ll have to do.
“You can smile,” she says. “It’s not like the passport pictures.”
I make my best photo face and stare at the blue dot.
“All done,” she chimes.
“Is it ok?” I ask.
“You look exactly the same as your last picture,” she responds. “And that was from….” She consults the computer, “…2014.”
I don’t care if she’s lying. I no longer care that she took a phone call and lost the stickers, that I waited in a fog of farts and bad breath for two hours. The Bureau of Motor Vehicles is my favorite place on earth. I could spend all day here.