Taylor has been bugging me ever since she turned fifteen, at first coyly and then more urgently, “when can I get my permit?” My response was that when she figured out what the requirements were and had prepared and studied for the test that I would take her to the DMV. My daughter then threw herself, uncharacteristically I might add, into the task with abandon. She appeared at home one evening last November with a couple of State issued books about roads and signs and how drinking and drugs can affect your driving.
A couple of days later she asked me for my credit card. “For what?” I asked. “To take my tests,” she replied. As it turns out, all a 15 year old has to do to get a permit in this state is to take a $25 test online, get a certification of completion in the mail and voila…just show up at the DMV and get your picture taken. I felt the whole process was somewhat lacking in the checks and balances department, but who am I to say?
After she received the certificate in the mail (on the second try) we decided to head down to the DMV on the last day before the holidays. She was out of school and I was already on holiday from work, so the timing seemed opportune. Apparently the timing was also great for the DMV employees to leave work an hour early to get a head start on their own celebrations, so the office was closed by the time that we got there.
Another try on one of the last days of the year was unsuccessful as well. By noon, the DMV was not taking any more people in as the wait time already exceeded their hours of operation. This little factoid should have set off warning bells, but we decided that the next time that Taylor had a late start for school for LTM at 10:30, (Normal school time is 8:30 – and getting one’s permit does not count as an excused tardy) we would be first in line when the DMV opened at 8:15 AM.
Which, is how we found ourselves at the hallowed doors of the DMV this past Thursday, at 7:30 AM sharp. Well, not exactly at the doors, more like a block away because the scene that greeted us was this:
There was already a line at least a hundred strong of the tired, poor, huddled masses in front of us. I espied folks with coolers, lawn chairs and reading materials. I sighed and muttered, “Geez, I remember sleeping out for a Madonna concert…but not for my permit!”
“Right!?” exclaimed a petite woman in front of me. She had questionable hair and teeth and her attire suggested she was a fellow ‘80’s alumni who had not left the look back in the decade where it belonged.
An older gentleman in mustard colored corduroy pants and a patterned sweater sidled up to the ‘80’s alum in front of me, kind of doing a sideways dance to cut in front of us. He appeared to be clutching an iPad in a protective folder. I eyeballed his curious and nervous two-step and decided magnanimously to let him stay in front of us.
A couple more women joined the line behind us, not connected in any way save the fact that they had arrived at the same time. One of them, who favored watching rap cartoons (who knew there was such a genre?) on her smart phone (without earphones) mentioned that she had been there the previous morning and she had seen an older man say something about not having his meds and just collapsing on the ground.
‘Good God,’ I thought. All of us in line had been making commiserating remarks about the disorganization and the inconvenience of waiting in line at an ungodly hour for the DMV, but not that it was health or life threatening. I subtly cast a glance around me to asses anyone who might suddenly have a case of the vapors. (As it turned out, my identification skills were weak.)
Chit-chat with our neighbors ceased and the ambiance of camaraderie dissipated once the doors were opened and people were slowly allowed to file in. The culture shift in the line reminded me of the phenomenon that happens when emergency vehicles are closing in from behind you on the road. You and your fellow drivers make way considerately, but once the blaring sirens are in front of you, it is every man for themselves – trying to be first in order to ride the ‘ambulance wake.’
We were all business now.
We were probably about 20 feet from the entrance when two employees came out of the building and started shouting for anyone not in need of a State ID or Driver’s License. Mr. Mustard Colored Corduroy pants in front of us said to one of the bellowing employees that he had lost his license. She said that he needed to stay in the line and pointed vaguely to the spot right in front of Taylor and me.
Dejected, Mr. Corduroy walked back into line and then for reasons known only to himself and God, decided that he would step over the low rope-like hanging chain that stood suspended between posts as a line of demarcation between the sidewalk and the pavement of the parking lot. His first leg he hoisted over just fine, but when he tried to pull his other leg over, his foot caught and forward he went.
It was one of those surreal slow motion moments. Initially, he started to fail his arms to stop the fall but then discontinued the effort. (I assume this was a misguided effort to save his iPad.) Instead, he elected a path devoid of self preservation and allowed his skull to be the direct point of impact.
I heard the ominous crack, dropped my bag at Taylor’s feet and rushed to his side (being very careful when stepping over the chain.) Several other people were at his side immediately, too. His face was still on the ground, and his body was facing away from me. He was making some sounds, and from what I could understand, he was trying to say that he was okay.
The same (bitch) employee to whom he had spoken was there when he finally got to standing with assistance. She said she would bring him a chair. He told her he was worried about losing his place in line. She procured a chair, sat it in the parking lot, facing the waiting-in-line crowd and told him that he didn’t have to worry, he wouldn’t have to wait in line. She left and the poor man sat there in his chair, clutching his intact iPad. He kept trying to shoo people away, saying he was fine. But as he sat there, I could see that he wasn’t.
Where his forehead had connected to the pavement, an enormous welt had begun. It didn’t even take two minutes to form and a fine stream of blood trickled from it down his face. Additionally concerning was the fact that his nose was misshapen and had widened and I realized in retrospect that the crack I had heard was from his nose breaking. He looked dazed and anxious. I hung back and tried to get someone to agree with me that he needed medical attention.
I was just considering calling 911 and how that conversation would play out when the (bitch) employee pushed through the throng of people again. “Excuse me, M ‘am,” I said touching her shoulder, “I do think that he needs to have medical attention.” The (bitch) employee brushed me aside and said she had to go open the gates for the EMT. I was relieved that Mr. Corduroy would get some much-needed assistance. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the fact that our local emergency team had been called out twice in two mornings. How many times does it take before someone says, “hmmm, perhaps there is a flaw in the system at the DMV”?
After Mr. Corduroy was safely being treated, we entered the building. I was greeted by a sign above my head that said, ‘Welcome to the DMV – The Un-Government Experience’ and to my right was a snaking line that reminded me of the S shaped lines that one would encounter at Disney World.
We had snaked through about half of it and my heart lifted a bit. The line was moving a bit quicker now, and I was shaking off the adrenaline that had coursed through me after Mr. Corduroy’s mishap, now that he was getting the medical attention he needed. I was still a little stressed about our paperwork (we had no fewer than 8 documents clutched in a folder) but internally assured myself that we had everything we needed. I was even able to chuckle when I saw this sign that warned anyone approaching this employee's desk, NO QUESTIONS:
Then, the loudspeaker came on; “for those of you who are in line for a State ID or Driver’s License, the system is down. We are on the phone with Tallahassee. The problem seems to be State wide.” Taylor and I exchanged glances. I was ready to throw in the towel. “Let’s come back tomorrow” I pleaded, “there is still time to get you to school on time.”
As only one with a singular goal can do, she rallied. She pleaded with me to just give it 15 more minutes. So I did. We had already come so far. Another (bitch #2) employee came through the line checking our paperwork. We were given a slip of paper that said OK on it and then shortly after, we were given a number and told to “wait in the lobby.” (a huge misappropriation of the noun)
I will spare you the details of our wait and the well dressed and well spoken Centenarian, who arrived with her nurse, to whom I proffered my seat and who fully expected to renew her Driver’s License. (The fact that she had been driven there by the nurse was inconsequential to her.)
Taylor and I listened numbly to the numbers being called. We heard “A101!” and I said to Taylor (much to the amusement of those in hearing distance) “Shit! I have never heard higher than 81 called at the deli line at Publix!”
Our number was finally called, and we high-tailed it to the designated station.
And sitting there was our final nemesis, a pleasant looking, clueless woman who went by the name of Frances.
I excitedly asked Frances which of the forms or documents she would prefer first. She accepted all of them, complained that another employee should have taken us. She shuffled our documentation around and said, “Now HOW do I do this?” Her voice came out gravelly and with a twang. Sort of like Marge Simpson meets a dedicated 2 pack a day smoker.
By this time, my eyebrows have met my hairline so often during this journey that they are fused together. I willed an exhale through my nose.
Frances decided to ask one of her co-workers how to process a Permit. “Hey Aaaaprilll,” she shouted, “how do you do one of these?” She redirected her attention to the papers in front of her and made a few key strokes on her computer. A few minutes later, she turned her head to squint her eyes towards the person she had asked the question of. Then her eyes shifted back to her computer screen and she mumbled, “That’s why she didn’t answer, her name’s Auuuutumn…not Aaaaprilll” and then she chuckled.
Though Frances was befuddled, spoke to herself frequently and sported an admirable mustache, her hearing was much more acute than her knowledge. We realized this when I pointed out our former comrade in DMV arms from the ‘lobby’, the Centenarian lady. Frances heard me whispering, let out a guttural guffaw and said, “Yeah, we’ll see if she gets her license renewed. Ha.” The knowledge that Frances possessed bat-ears forced Taylor to communicate with me via text while I was standing a mere 6 inches away. “Figures we would get the only person who doesn’t know what she is doing!” I had to stifle a chuckle at my daughter’s ingenuity.
I will say in Frances’ defense, she was the most cheerful person that we met that morning. Perhaps ignorance truly is bliss.
I did have to coach Frances through some steps of the process (which should have been 10 minutes, but which took 30.) I had to remind her that Taylor’s Birth Certificate was in her scanner and that the Parental Approval form rested on her printer. But, when Taylor’s photogenic moment finally came and she stepped in front of the blue screen, nervously adjusting herself for the permanent photo, Frances became the Patrick Demarchelier of the DMV. One shot and done. I smugly (Hey, I had few opportunities to feel smugness during this experience) noticed that the young woman next to us insisted on multiple shots from her DMV employee. Frances came through, as Taylor looks absolutely beautiful in her State of Florida Permit photo.
Taylor still had to answer a few more questions from Frances. Such as, has her license ever been revoked, has she ever been arrested for drugs or alcohol…oh, and does she want to be an organ donor?
This last question prompted Taylor to look at me with questioning eyes. “Do I want to be an organ donor, Mom?” Now, this is deep stuff for a 15 year old who is not legally considered an adult. (Now, why didn’t they include this little tidbit in one of the online courses or tests? Let the kid think about this at home and perhaps speak about it with their parents?) Without telling her what my feelings were, she decided ‘yes.’
Then all of a sudden, we hit the summit of our epic climb up Mount DMV when the coveted State Issued Florida Permit landed in her hot little hands. Eureka! We did it!
And then, my internal voice toned in and said, ‘Oh shit.’
After 15 years, 3 months,22 days plus 3 hours, I am a parent of a licensed driver.
Despite our trials at the DMV and also somewhat because of them, I am a little shell-shocked and surprised.
But my daughter? Is elated. She is a licensed driver in the great State of Florida.
eegads, wish me well.
