Went to the DMV to get my expired driver's license renewed. It would be nice if the license burst into flames on the day it expired, or perhaps emitted a squeal of warning, but given where guys keep it, that's probably not a good thing. I think I speak for half of the population here: It's the only thing in your life where you have four years' warning, and you still miss the date.
When last I got one, the license had an expiration date in the unimaginable far-flung future of 2010, which is the name of a movie in which a Russian and U.S. spacecraft rejoin the doomed expedition from the movie "2001." I think I expected I'd be reminded my license was up for renewal when the events of that movie transpired, but since Jupiter did not collapse into a sun and aliens warn us never to land on the moon Europa, it slipped my mind.
When you enter the Office of Government, you size up the room: Everyone there is a potential foe, inasmuch as they may be here for the same thing. A friendly clerk gave me a number: C204. I looked at the board: C294.
"So they have to go through 900 more before me?" I asked. I'd brought only a magazine and a Russian novel, and I worried I'd run out of things to read. I could probably get the World Book Encyclopedia on my mobile phone, but the battery was half-drained.
"No, it goes to 299, and then it starts over."
Ah. I took a seat. A few minutes later a fellow sat down a few chairs away, and his reading material consisted entirely of a ticket that said C205. He looked at it for a long time. I was tempted to ask him to summarize, just to see if it was a sequel to C204. Finally, he got up and went over to the magazines, which might have been called Hair and Clothing, Cars You Can't Afford and Big Guys Paid Well to Manipulate Sporting Goods. He sat back down and stared at his ticket.
Granted, it was a cliffhanger story: Who will be called next? Periodically, a nice robot comes over the loudspeaker, and says "A Number That Is Not Yours Has Been Called," or words to that effect. Everyone looks up at the board anyway. They call some A's. They call some B's. Some D's. No C's. There's a rash of F's called, and you wonder what they do at the F window. Perhaps it's the State Department of Easy Answers. "Hey, do I have a piece of spinach in my teeth?" "No. NOW SERVING F666." "Hello, does this tattoo mean I'm the Antichrist?" "Yes. NOW SERVING F667."
When I was finally called I was subjected to a rigorous eye exam: Can you read the top line? Yes. Oh, you want me to say the letters? You mean you don't know it by now? As usual, it was X W C G U B, which makes you feel like you're looking for the turnoff to the dyslexia convention.
She also asked if I saw the flashing lights, and I instinctively tried to hit the gas: I can beat this train to the crossing. Then my picture was taken -- smile for the photo against which the ravages of age will be measured for the next four years! -- and I was done.
We all complain about the DMV, because we're supposed to, I guess. But I compare it to my stint on the East Coast, where the DMV Building had a motto engraved in Latin -- Exspectata ut abyssus. Nos contemno vos. Roughly, "Go to Hell, We Hate You." Which is why I don't mind going to the DMV around here. From the friendly guy who passed out tickets and answered questions to the crisp and efficient clerk, it was painless, and I was out in half an hour.
Just one thing: that disco music on the PA. I do like the nightlife; I do like to boogie. But unless you're going to drop a mirrored ball and blow some dry-ice smoke around the room, go with something a bit more sedate and less distracting. The fellow reading his ticket kept losing his place.
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/blogs/lileks
