It’s summer, so let’s talk about fun. So often people think fun has to be extravagant, other worldly, fireworks-worthy. It doesn’t. You can have fun almost anywhere, any time with the right people and right frame of mind. I recently had a blast at the DMV. Yes, it’s true. I had a gas (like the pun?) at the Minnesota Department of Motor Vehicles, now known as Driver and Vehicle Services.
Yeah, right, you’re thinking: What could anyone write about the DMV, the acronym I prefer to use, that wouldn’t result in being banned from Twitter for life? I used to feel that way, and I also know what it’s like to be kicked off Twitter after I let loose following the presidential election of 2016. But I digress.
In the United States there are over 243 million licensed drivers — 89% of all adults. (Watch a few episodes of Judge Judy and you’ll find this percentage dubious.) In Minnesota there are nearly four and a half million licensed adult drivers and, while terms vary from state to state, in MN we drivers must re-up every four years and report to the DMV. We sit in a grungy plastic chair, clutch the paper number THAT WILL NEVER GET CALLED, and stare at the screen offering up driving tips and quizzes, praying that we have the right documents and finally wind up the torture with a photo that makes our kids’ school photos appear as if they’d been taken by Richard Avedon. Strung end to end, my licenses look like a Diane Arbus retrospective.
I was born in June, and, say what you will about the DMV, they give plenty of notice. Like couples who send out “save the date” cards eons before the big event, the DMV is on it. I received their summons early in April notifying me that I had to renew my current license, which was set like a ticking time bomb to expire on my birthday.
I’m usually not a procrastinator but going to the DMV loomed like a trip to the gallows which anybody would put off, so the day before my birthday I entered Triple A’s hallowed halls (between Lunds & Byerlys and Health Partners in St. Louis Park). I waited until almost the last minute because I couldn’t bear the thought of spending a minute of my birthday in a government building unless it was to receive a plaque proclaiming Dorothy Richmond Day, and we all know that’s never gonna happen.
First order of business: Get there early. Doors open at 8:00 a.m. I arrived at 7:34 and was third in an already building line, having learned the hard way that every minute spent waiting outside is worth about five waiting inside. Also, if you get there early, you’ll likely get a fresh and perky representative (dare I say fun?), not yet beaten down by people whose only operative emotion is hatred of all that surrounds them. How would you feel if everyone you encountered couldn’t wait to get away?
I hit the jackpot with agent Sasha, a 50-something woman. It started out benign. I handed over my subpoena, current license, paperwork. I asked Sasha a couple of questions to which she responded at length and perfunctorily as if reciting the Lord’s Prayer or Pledge of Allegiance (If you interrupt, I’ll have to start all over again), and I thought OK, she knows her stuff. I asked her how long she’d been at the DMV. She replied, “This is my first day.” I said, “Wow, you’re amazing.” She said, “Wow, you’re gullible.” And we were off, throwing dish at each other and batting it back. Sasha was fun.
Then it was time for the photo. I combed my hair and regretted that I hadn’t worn earrings. Sasha said, “Get in there,” pointing to the front of the camera. I obeyed, and Sasha demanded, “Smile!” I told her I thought you’re not supposed to smile, and she said, “That’s for passports and mug shots. This is the DMV: Work it, girl!” So, I worked it. Then I left, laughing and happy.
My new license arrived a few days ago, and the photo looks like I work in the circus.
— Dorothy
