Adam's DMV Adventure
or
A journey into the ID Inferno
I stopped at Papaya King on my way home. I usually don’t. Four bucks and change seems like kind of a lot for a couple hot dogs and a fruity drink, and none of it particularly good for you, but I needed a treat. I had just come from the DMV, and since I couldn’t afford a day at a spa, sweating out the stink and evil and getting the stress massaged away, Papaya would have to do it.
It had been a rough afternoon. The subway ride home had been something of a bitch. I took the N train to Lex and, as I was getting out, saw a crazy guy getting out of the train next to mine. An old man with bushy white hair, he was holding both an accordion and one of those long white canes with the ball on the end that blind people carry. He was shouting Seat, Hanzoona to no one in particular. I kind of wished I had been on his train. I like subway musicians; they add a usually appropriate soundtrack to my subterranean travels. And this guy in particular seemed bizarre enough that I might have even given him some money. Me, who has worked only one day since I arrived in New York City, Christ, is it five months ago? I would have put some of my precious little money in his cup. Assuming he was good at that accordion, that is.
I grabbed the 4 train, which was packed like a cattle car. The door closed and I was flush against it, the car as packed as humanly possible. Then the door opened again and the pre-recorded announcer voice informed us that we were being held momentarily by the train’s dispatcher. We proceeded to sit in the station for a while, doors open, people rushing to disprove my theory that the car was at capacity.
Finally I said screw it and went back upstairs to get on the 6 train. The 4 was an express, and the next stop would have been mine, but it’s no faster if the train won’t leave the station. As soon as I hit the stairs, though, I saw the doors close and the train start to move. They must be in cahoots with the DMV, I theorized. The 6 was just as packed, but it also left promptly and got me to 86th street in good time. 86th, where I picked myself up a strange mango-colada and a couple of extra long, finger thin hot dogs with some strange onion, papaya relish. Lunch.
But two hotdogs, even slathered in an onion papaya goo, are barely strong enough to wipe out the bad taste that the DMV puts in your mouth. This was my third time there, my last ditch effort to accomplish a seemingly impossible goal of getting an out-of-state driver’s license transferred. The commonwealth of Virginia had been willing enough to accept that I was who I said I was, but the state of New York was not going to be so easily fooled.
A Virginia driver’s license, social security card, and various other forms of ID were not enough to prove who I am, evidently. Forget that VA has the same security and anti-forging precautions on their ID cards that anyone else does, the NYDMV needed proof positive that I was who I said I was. They needed a birth certificate. A document with no photo or any other kind of identifying marks on it. Just a name.
So, having spent well over an hour in lines, I went home pissed off and empty handed to call my mother and ask her if she had the birth certificate. That was several weeks ago. She mailed me the document that she had been given when I was born and I took that back to the DMV. I waited in the line for another hour and a half and the same retarded guy, and I’m not being pejorative here, he really was mentally retarded, took my photo and sent me to wait in another hour-long line. At the end of the second line a disinterested woman told me that she didn’t like my birth certificate because it didn’t have a state seal on it. She let me talk to her supervisor who told me that I needed either a birth certificate with a seal, a passport, a military ID, or some immigration papers to get a license. I’m a pretty liberal guy, so I left without contemplating the fact that it is evidently easier to get a license if you’re not from this country.
So finally today I did successfully complete the driver’s license process. Here’s the kicker, the high-security mind-blower. I ordered the document I needed off of the Internet. Seventeen bucks and an Internet connection got me a birth certificate. No ID check, no proof of anything other than a valid credit card number and I was able to get my license. I’m surprised they don’t require you to get a homeless person to vouch for you.
I got my picture taken. In line, everyone else was busy fixing their hair and makeup. Last minute primping as if they were on a date. After this many trips to the DMV I was determined to give them the worst picture ever taken of me. Unshaven, I mussed my hair up as bad as I could get it and sneered into the lens. I calmed it down a little; my original plan had been to wear a t-shirt with a hand giving the middle finger followed by the letters D-M-V. Somehow, though, I guessed that telling the DMV to fuck off in my photo might cause me to have to come back yet again. A prank wasn’t worth another afternoon spent in this line.
Here’s the kicker. I finally got through it all. I managed to have a fleet of low-paid, bad-attitude bureaucrats accept that I really was who I claimed to be. And they gave me a computer printout that said it was my temporary license for the next two to four weeks until my ID card arrived in the mail. So now I have no photo ID of any kind. No way to prove my identity to anyone.
A few people, to whom I have related this story, have reminded me that security is more of an issue in the post 9/11 world. This is true. And I would accept this as an answer, except that there is nothing about the birth certificate that proves who I am. There’s no photo, no fingerprints, the seal is not raised or embossed. I could bang one out on a laser printer. What’s more, they rejected several ID’s that had photos on them as invalid, holding out for a birth certificate issued almost 32 years after the birth occurred.
But if you’ve read this far, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I have discovered the trick to getting in and out of government institutions in less time than it takes to cook a turkey. Go at the end of the day. When they have their whole day ahead of them, a government drone doesn’t care if it takes them fifteen minutes to staple two pieces of paper together. They get paid by the hour. If you go in just before quitting time, they’ll fly you out the door. At that point, you’re cutting into their time.
This theory proved true on my last trip to the DMV. The two previous times I had gone during the middle of the day and was there in line for hours. The last time I went an hour before they closed, and even though the line was almost twice as long, I made it out in about half the time. Use this information wisely, my friends.
More good stuff at AtomicLunch.com