A Gay Ole Time at the DMV
I took a half-day off work and went to the DMV on a Thursday afternoon, expecting a small crowd. Not so much! Before switching my tags from Pennsylvania to Delaware, I had to get my license switched. I pulled a ticket at the information desk and sat down to wait my turn. (I knew those kindergarten lessons would come in handy someday, although I still have a serious sweet-tooth for paste.) They were “now serving” A192, and glancing down at my ticket, I saw I had been assigned the unlucky number of A208. I figured the “A” in my number stood for “Astronomically Long Wait,” but it wasn’t too bad, about an hour. When I heard my number called, I wanted to jump up and down in my seat, screaming, “I won! I won! I’m the new Miss Delaware DMV!” But I resisted temptation. The employee who switched over my license showed about as much enthusiasm as Pat Robertson at a NOW convention. The automated paging system that called my number had more inflection in her voice. After showing him many documents to prove my identity, including my Proof of Earthling Status Certificate, and whizzing through an eye exam, I walked over to have my picture taken.
Again, I resisted gaying it up, breaking into RuPaul’s “Snapshot,” or blurting out, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DMV Man!” In case you haven’t had a DMV experience lately, you’re no longer allowed to smile for drivers license pictures, because a smile interferes with facial recognition software. (Big brother, big brother, where art thou?) It was difficult not to break a smile, considering the employee taking my picture was a tall, kind stud-muffin with a military haircut, a big barrel chest, and a butt like Baryshnikov. I stood glossy-eyed in front of the blue screen, this time resisting the temptation to do my best Al Roker impression. “I’m drooling over this DMV employee snapping my picture. Now here’s what’s happening in your neck of the woods!” In two minutes, just as the DMV Stud-Muffin promised, I had my new license in-hand. I look older than I did in my last driver’s license photo—no doubt the result of poor lighting. After all, I’m used to expensive spotlights and relaxing massages between sets during my monthly Cosmo centerfold sessions.
I returned to the information desk to take a ticket for the title registration area, only to be told that my car had to pass inspection first. After catching a much-needed smoke, I drove to the inspection lane and waited behind a massive camper that just about scraped the ceiling as it drove through. Driving my car through inspection makes me jumpier than a snowman in summertime. These DMV employees are always “men’s men,” and I don’t think my car—filled with fluffy, sequined dresses and foot-tall, lacquered wigs—convinces them I’m just one of the guys. I rolled down my window and the employee stood in front of my car, barking out instructions, but they came across as a whisper over the blaring boom box he had playing next to his Plexiglas “office.” When I asked him three times to repeat himself, he glared at me like I was the one with a problem. During the busy flurry of “right turn signal, left turn signal, low beams, high beams, honk your horn, do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around,” I suddenly realized I have no idea how to work my headlights. I keep them on “auto” all the time, and I never use my high beams. In my embarrassing panic, I pulled a random lever and windshield washer fluid shot out. Taking pity on the damsel in distress, the employee came over and figured out my headlights for me. He curtly declared that I had “a couple of lights out” and I need to get them fixed—tempting me to knock a couple of his lights out. He handed me a paper and waved me up to the next employee.
This employee waved me up, and I slowly accelerated. He waved harder. I accelerated more. He waved his hands and bugged his eyes out, so I hit the gas, prompting him to shout, “Stop!”, which I did quickly. Couldn’t the last employee have forewarned me that this was the dreaded “hit the gas, then the brake” test? I’m not Miss Cleo. Next, he motioned for me to step outside of my car, which I did. Was I being arrested? He wasn’t cute enough to frisk me. I may be single and desperate, but even I have my standards. He hooked a long cord into some part my dashboard, just below and to the left of the steering wheel, a part of my car I didn’t even know existed—some kind of Emissions Tattling System, and I felt betrayed by my own vehicle. After playing on his computer and adjusting the tube a few times, he removed it and went back to hunting and pecking on the computer keyboard. Uncomfortable and unsure of my next move, I queried timidly, “Should I get back into my car?” He snapped his head around and lifted his arm, silently telling me to “talk to the hand.” Eventually—and only with his express verbal permission—I got back into the car. He handed me a piece of paper and said, “You’ve gotta get those lights taken care of.” Like a seventh grader after a mid-term, I asked anxiously, “So…did I pass?” He repeated that I had to “get those lights taken care of.” In desperate need of direction, and losing my patience, I snapped, “So what do I do now?!? Do I go back inside? Can I get my car registered?!?” He tersely explained that I need to go home, get my lights fixed, and bring my car back through inspection again.
Instead, I drove my rejected vehicle to the nearest Wawa parking lot and chain-smoked. Actually, I shook. And then I chain-smoked.
If you’d like to fix Eric’s car lights—a task for which his delicate fingers and gay brain are not equipped—email him at ericmorrison1974@gmail.com.