A Visit to the DMV

Zipped down to Bangor yesterday. Actually, that’s not true. By definition, living in Greenville prohibits “zipping” to anywhere, save perhaps Shirley. You can “shoot” up to Rockwood or down to Monson, but for destinations beyond a ten-mile radius, there is no “zipping.”

     Where was I heading with this?

     Oh yeah.

     The drive from Greenville to Bangor is a mind-numbingly dull, 90-minute slog, and what precious little joy I feel upon arrival fades before I hit my first red light. Safe to say I’m not a fan of Maine’s Queen City. In fact, whenever I’m there, I try to accomplish as much as possible with the singular goal of not needing to return anytime soon. I plan the trip carefully, and if I still have time after checking everything off my “Must Do” list, I try to squeeze at least one non-urgent errand into the day. Yesterday’s non-urgent errand: a visit to the DMV.

     If you noticed me driving around town last summer with studded snow tires, it will surely come as no surprise that I’ve also been driving with an out-of-state license. It’s a New Hampshire license, and I’ve held it for a very long time—long enough to have lived in three states not named New Hampshire. Yeah, I know this is illegal, but I’m about as fond of the DMV as I am of Bangor. Unfortunately, my license was set to expire next month, so I had little choice but to make an appearance.

     I arrived at the Department of Motor Vehicles, stepped inside, and took a number from the machine. I pulled number 107, and the monitor on the wall showed that number 89 was already being helped. This seemed pretty good, and I took a seat. That’s when the scam that is the DMV numbering system began to reveal itself. You see, I mistakenly thought there existed only 18 numbers between 89 and 107.  Not at the DMV.  Nope, the Maine Department of Motor Vehicles has its own version of numerical order. It goes something like this: 90, 91, BA-47, BA-723, 92, BA-468, BA-218, BA-290, 93, and so on and so forth…

     Suddenly realizing that I might be there a while, I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and eavesdropped on the DMV customers at the various service windows. I learned much, not the least of which is that there’s no such thing as a quick and easy transaction at the DMV. Perhaps most amazing: the utter lack of preparation on the part of customers. Seemingly not a single soul brought his or her necessary paperwork, and I heard countless tales of woe--grown adults offering up one “the dog ate my homework” story after another. In fact, customer incompetence ran so high that I actually felt sorry for the employees.

     I don’t know how much they pay you people, I thought, but it ain’t enough.  

     After waiting 90-odd minutes, a computer-generated voice from somewhere in the ceiling said, “Now serving number 107 at window 5.”

     I approached window 5 where a 20-something lady named Trish greeted me with a “How may I help you?” and a professional, if slightly gratuitous, smile.

     “I’m here to trade in my New Hampshire license for a Maine REAL ID license.”

     “Okay, great!” said Trish, and I laid my supporting documents on the counter: my driver’s license, my birth certificate, a utility bill, my car registration. Trish took each one and read it over. Then, she broke my heart. Turns out my utility bill lists my town as “Greenville Junction,” whereas my car registration shows me living in “Cove Point Township.” This discrepancy meant Trish couldn’t give me my REAL ID. She could, however, issue me a traditional Maine license.

     “I’ll take it,” I said, adding, “I’ll come back for my REAL ID as soon as I have the town office change my car registration.”

     “Oh, you don’t need to go through all that,” assured Trish. “Just bring your new Maine license when it comes in the mail.”

     I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly. “You mean I can use the license you’re about to issue me to get my REAL ID license?”

    “Sure can!” she beamed.

     I looked at her and waited for…I don’t know…a smirk, an eyeroll—something, anything—to acknowledge the obvious irony in what she’d just told me. Trish, though, offered no hint of understanding, and all the sympathy I’d felt for her and her co-workers turned to scorn in less time than you can say, “Now serving one-zero-eight.” And then, she made it worse.

     “Soon as it arrives in the mail,” she said, still smiling, “you just zip right on back down here!”