Taking my new husband’s surname seemed like no big deal, until I found out that I needed to go to the DMV to procure a new driver’s license. I even reconsidered: Should I really abandon my maiden identity? After all, I’m a modern woman, who dreads the DMV.
The Boston DMV opens at 8:30am, but I had a hard time dragging my disemployed ass out of bed, so I arrived at 9am to find a sizable crowd already fidgeting on the wooden benches in the waiting area. The Boston DMV has an automated deli-counter-style ticket system. My ticket was number F753, and had printed assurance that the current wait time was 22 minutes.
I surveyed the room for a place to sit. Since most routine licensing tasks can be done online, it didn’t surprise me that the vast majority of the crowd appeared to hail from the offline lower echelons of society: Shady derelicts, fresh of the boat immigrants, and general white trash. I sat down and realized that I had self-sorted myself into a tiny cluster of blond women.
“Now serving, F722, at window number 25,” the automated voice rang out. Given that I had been sitting for 3 minutes and this was the first number called, and I was still 30 numbers away… well, not a good sign. I finished filling out my form and pulled out the New York Times to read about how George W. Bush and John McCain ate hot-dogs together before Bush gave McCain his endorsement.
The woman in front on me sighed and tapped her long, red fake nails against the bench. She wore black leotard and an oversized orange and blue print jacket that covered her fleshy body. Her hair was long and ratty, with roots past her ears. I kept glancing at her, thinking how strange that her nails seemed to be the only part of her body that she cared about. Such are the profound thoughts that one can have in the DMV.
“Now serving, F735, at window number 18.” A young black man in oversized jeans and black jacket had been inching over to the counters, and suddenly he darted over to a clerk. “Excuse me, was your number called?” a black woman’s voice, and immediately all hell broke loose. I peeked around a barrier to see 8 black women, all DMV employees behind the counter, all talking at once at the young black man who was gesturing at a piece of paper that he held. The voices rose to a fever pitch then suddenly died as two security guards shuffled over, slowly, wearily, as if breaking up melees between the staff and the public was a routine task. I began to fear for my safety.
“Now serving, C302, at window number 15.” Wait, what’s this C bullshit? There’s a whole other concurrent numbering scheme? The room is getting more crowded by the minute.”Now serving, C303, at window number 8.” More blond women squeeze onto my bench. It’s 9:20.
“Now serving, F740, at window number 5.” Back on the F numbers, so I relax and return to the New York Times. Did you know that the President of Turkmenistan is a former dentist named Gurbanguly Berdymukhammedov who wants to reward women for having eight or more kids by giving them a one-time bonus of $25, as well as free utilities, public transportation and dental care for life?
“Now serving, F746, at window number 18.” I’m so close. The population of the room has swelled to double the number of people since I entered 45 minutes ago. These people will be waiting for hours, and they know it. The room seethes with impatience as people audibly sigh, stare at each other, stare at the screen that displays the ‘now serving’ number.
“Now serving, F753, at window number 16.” I triumphantly rise, philanthropically leaving my newspaper on my seat, and circumvent the barrier to arrive at window number 16. The black woman (they are all black women) assists me with my name change efficiently, yet as if I’m an inanimate object, a sandwich that needs to be sliced, slathered, stuffed, and then sent away with nary an acknowledgment that we were human beings who have interacted.
