I spent part of the morning at one of the regional branch offices of Hell, which of course was incorporated sometime back in the early 80′s. Well, technically, it was a separate company owned by Hell. No, not the airport. Yes, I’m referring to the DMV, or Devil’s Motor Vendor, voted 2nd Most Likely Place to Get Mugged Whilst Standing In Line (the first was a back alley called Shank Ya Avenue in Compton, for comparison). Actually, the branch I visited is in Culver City, which is like the Des Moines of Los Angeles proper. Except more Hispanics. Still, as safety goes, Culver City rates much lower on the murder/burglary/mugging scale than, say, Hollywood. On the other hand, rapes are apparently more popular here than elsewhere, so it depends on your perspective (and your gender).
It is astonishing to me that despite being in a city of 10.2 million people, every single person in the DMV looks exactly alike. I’m not talking about race or class here. It’s the cell phones. Everyone has one. Or two. I saw one businessman with an earpiece attached to a Sidekick (which has cellular capabilities). Then his other phone rang. Another thing: people seem to think that having a cellular phone is a free pass for ringtones with subwoofer-shattering volumes. This isn’t the Hollywood Bowl orchestra–it’s your phone. Despite what you may think, it is not the pinnacle of cool to have L’il Kim suddenly assaulting your ears from four seats away.
There’s all these subtle insults at the DMV. The ticket system is designed to reduce you to a compliant, docile creature, whilst the atmosphere chokes you with an intensity of white space. It’s a place you would send your hated in-laws if you could, a building without charm or grace, just straight white lines and a monotonous automated computer reading out ticket numbers. The process guarantees you will be a long term resident if you do not comply. Even anarchists follow the DMV rules. The lines dictate you do so. And that grim voice gives you hope, like a prisoner approaching parole, that perhaps, it is all soon to be over. And the ticket system is master over all. If you don’t have a ticket, you can’t move. Without a ticket, you are nobody, and that’s less than the no-name nobody who holds F072 in his hands. You have a ticket; you may not have a name, but at least you have a number, and that means that one shining day, your number will be called. You pity any fool who tries to buck this system. The system revels in conformity, delights in obedience…no, that would be giving it human qualities, and this is a place with less heart than a glass of water.
Ticket systems are usually designed around a combination of a letter and then some numbers. For instance, I was F072. Doubtless fulfilling one of the more obscure Murphy’s laws, your ticket is never on the “fast track”. The B tickets were flying by. G tickets were a little less common, but had a steady flow. And F? Of course, F was called a scant three times during the hour I was imprisoned. I suppose that makes me “special”. Not unique, but at the DMV, special is still a treat, except in its scarcity.
Once I finally got to the counter, my experience improved dramatically. I was treated with courtesy, shuffled through like any normal good citizen, and passed my test without studying, though I missed four questions. Why do I need to know what the speed limit is for vehicles carrying hazardous materials? Still, I have proved my driving worth to the State of California, and eagerly await my plastic laminated identification in the mail. And at least I don’t have to go stand in line at the post office to get it–that’s another essay altogether.