I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the DMV rocks.
I’ve been dodging the law and for all intensive purposes, “pushing my limits” in terms of being street legal. I have a rather tumultuous relationship with DPT, on top of which there was an unfortunate “misunderstanding” regarding my car registration. I won’t get into details, but the word ‘warrant’ was used.
So scared about my pending cavity search, I’ve actually been having dreams of flashing lights pulling me over, and in my dreams, I considered making a run for it.
I couldn’t tolerate the knot in my stomach any longer. I had to deal with the bureaucratic and financial hell I was due. If I know anything about dealing with the government, and I assure you, I know very little, it’s that one should always do business in the suburbs. And do so in the middle of the day. So yesterday, I took my folder of paperwork and headed over to the Marin DMV.
The hardest part about parking at the Marin DMV is the fact that you have to wait for extremely elderly people to get the fuck out of the way. Once I parked, I booked it past the walker and cane contingent to what appeared to be a concierge.
“I have some, uh, registration issues.”
“Okay. You’re number B046. Here’s your ticket. Your number will appear on these screens when it’s your turn.”
“How efficient. Any idea on how long we’re talking?”
“I guess about 5 minutes.”
I brought a magazine and everything. I sat down and cracked open an interview with Joan Rivers. All I could think of was that Joan probably drove a registered car and never got parking tickets. Every once in awhile, a voice would announce another number over the loudspeaker, in addition to the 57 TV screens letting us all know which numbers were at which windows.
“B043 to Window 4!”
B043? Cool. 3 to go.
Obviously, I had to check out my fellow criminals. The only one of note was a 19 year old sporting Corona Light pajama pants as she cared for what I assume is her illegitimate child. If you’re going to be a teenage mom, don’t punctuate the stereotype by wearing beer pants.
But who the hell am I to judge. I’m practically a felon. I reminded myself that they don’t arrest people at the DMV. What’s the worst that could happen? They’d tell me I was a horrible person and not allowed to drive.
Tell me something I don’t know.
“B045 to Window 14!”
Oh god. I’m next.
The knot in my stomach grew. I’m going to jail. I know it. The mugshot alone would haunt me for the rest of my lesbian rape-filled life.
“B046 to Window 12!”
Window 12 was a guy in plaid pants.
“Well, I have this mountain of paperwork. But I put it in a folder!”
“No. The ticket with your number on it. B046.”
I handed over my number, no doubt so they could embroider it on my jumpsuit.
“Okay, so we need to register your car. And then we’ve got all these parking tickets. Do you want to pay for those now?”
I basically handed over my life savings, my left arm and a promise of my first born child.
“Okay. Here’s your sticker. Here’s your registration. I’ve signed your ticket. You’re cool.”
“You’re good. You’ve just got to show up in person at the San Francisco Hall of Justice and show them that you’ve done this.”
“So, I’m free?”
Oh my god. No handcuffs. No jumpsuit. No lesbian rape.
Now, all I have to do is go to the Hall of Justice, which is…oh wait.
It’s at the jail…