Room 2, Window 3 at the DMV

Recently, I discovered my driver’s license was about to expire, so happy birthday, you are no longer eligible to renew by mail. A DMV appearance is required, I guess, by law.

The last time that I renewed it, I chose the Bellflower office because I thought parking would be easier. After all, take a look at the street parking opportunities near the Willow Street DMV. Scrub that, there are none.

And the Bellflower branch is more exciting, just ask the customer who stomped on a substantial cockroach that approached the applicants standing for their turn, because Bellflower forgot to order enough space for sufficient chairs.

This time, I decided to make an appointment for Thursday morning, at the Willow Street location. Wanting to look adult, not a T-shirt wearing older guy, I wore a clean, stiff collared shirt that my daughter had given me for Father’s Day.

The DMV online site told me my appointment would last an estimated nine minutes. I arrived on time, the guard at the door told me, go to the right, way back. I passed up the line that snaked out the front door. I stood in the wrong line for a few minutes, the signage showing the appointment line was haphazard, but someone told me I’d crashed the longer line, so finally I got it.

Three people in front. But when I got close, the clerk called someone from the non-appointment line, deciding I could just bide my time. That approved interloper took over 15 minutes to be directed away. When I got to the clerk, she asked if I’d pre-registered. I had tried, but kept getting bounced out. I wondered what happened to the rare person who had no online access. I found out.

I was directed to room two. Now that’s a hike into almost another ZIP code, past the waiting throng, past the 20-plus windows and past the photography section in what I assume is room one, the big kahuna room with all the windows and waiting customers.

Room two is where you are to take a knowledge test, you know, what is the speed limit in a religious school zone? Or should you speed up or slow down going up a hill? Hint: speed up.

But my knowledge test was cancelled without my knowledge. Instead, I was directed to a computer to divulge my whole life story: Social Security number, had I ever been in the service? Had I ever been denied a license? No to the last. I suspected had I checked yes, I’d be directed to multiple pages to explain and recall past DMV run-ins. To their credit, they did not ask if I was on parole, if I was being sought for deportation or if I’d ever been kicked out of the Peace Corps.

The screen then showed my responses, and though I had already memorized my SS# and my DL#, I managed to show my city of residence as “Long Bech.” After adding the extra “a” I took the results back to the room two window and I was given the number that would appear on the screen.

I waited a good 20 minutes out of the nine that I was promised to view a series of advertisements on the room one TV screen with the advisory that DMV does not endorse these products. I was an “I” but waited for many “B” and “G” numbers to be called. Finally, I was called to window three, another hike back to near where I started from.

The woman behind the plastic barrier and the face mask was professional, less than conversational. Hoping for a Real ID, so I could qualify as a real person, fly on a real airplane to a real destination, I handed her several documents, a certificate of my birth in a U.S. hospital, a letter from an insurance company and a tax bill with my name affixed. I had no required utility bills, because Frontier charges a stiff fee for the privilege of mailing a paper bill – their announced reason, saving the environment. The local water department had no such qualms, but for reasons I don’t recall, I used my first and middle initial as a customer, making specific ID a non-starter. I asked if the letters were okay, “yes” was the answer, making me real.

She told me to review my room two answers. They looked okay. Then came the payment part. The $35 fee grew to $47. I chose not to ask why. Inserting my credit card in the machine, I got a surprise. A 95-cent surcharge for this convenience. I had the cash with me, but what the hey, be a big spender. I recalled all the instructions and advisories, but didn’t recall the warning about a surcharge, really, money in the pocket of a private vendor. Very 20th Century.

I asked one question. I had posed the question to others. Why were those in my age group required to show up to renew? I had been told, “It’s to take an eye test, bring your glasses.” That I did. There was a chart, I had my glasses. No eye test was given. So I asked her, “Do drivers my age have to show up to make sure we’re breathing?” She finally showed indications of a personality, under her mask she giggled, I’m sure she giggled. “I’ve never heard that” was the totality of her response.

She then handed me a receipt and a piece of paper that would serve as my license after my current one expired. Then back to the camera section in my photogenic shirt. No more room two, no more window three. I was free for at least the next five years when I hoped to still be breathing.