yanking the BMV's chain
I was talking to a friend who is a worrier, even more so than I am, and she mentioned that she had cleaned the little tag area on her license plate with alcohol before affixing the new tag, just to make sure it would stick. I can say honestly that I have never worried about this particular thing. If there is heavy dirt, I might swipe my thumb across the sticker area with the casual attitude that every one that came before stuck, and so will this one. I try to save my worrying for big, traumatic things, like: Going to the BMV.
Now that, my friends, is cause for concern. As soon as you walk into a BMV in Indiana, there is an armed, rather inept looking security guard. This looks like the last-post-before-retirement kind of job. I worry about the guard's aim and reflexes because one look into the room, and one can tell there are people on the verge of going postal on both sides of the long desk. On one side--people with layers of thin, fluttery, easily lost, yet criticaly important and irreplaceable documents pressed tightly in their sweaty hands. On the other--people who are not paid enough to take any crap from anyone, who make up for lack of monetary remuneration by displaying their power over how your life proceeds from here on out. I mentally practice hitting the deck.
At the first weigh-in station, my documents are snatched and all forms of identification are confiscated, hastily paper-clipped together, and jammed into a burgeoning file, hopefully under the correct letter. There is no going home at this point unless I choose to walk out as the person with no provable identity and no license to operate a motor vehicle. In return for every piece of
paper that allows me to more swiftly run the rat race, I get a number, which I grip like death.
One time, I heard some poor, trusting sod try to retrieve his documents. He told the document-collecting drone behind the counter that they had taken them from him yesterday and had asked that he return the next day with additional documents. This was the next day, and here he was with his additional documents, and now they were telling him they did not have the documents from the day before. That it was against policy to keep documents overnight, and if it was against policy then, obviously, it didn't happen. As any idiot should know. In any case, the BMV was not at fault. I felt this man's panic two spots away in line and began to sweat. It was painful to watch.
As I wait with my lucky lotto number, I hear people heaving huge sighs all around. The most common sort of sigh is the irritated, unbelieving sigh issued from the BMV worker who has found herself up against the wall with some arcane practice or requirement that will not let her continue her processing of this customer. The worker-person must, when faced with a troublemaker, consult with the head BMV honcho in the clear glass office in the corner whose job was probably falsely touted as a "promotion". If the problem is grevious enough, the honcho is brought out to explain, but usually the line worker is sent back out, slogging slowly over, to tell you why you can't do what you need to do, or, more hopefully, that you can for an additional fee. Bring it on. Additional fees are minor in comparison to the fear of returning.
If all goes well, you're out of there in a couple of hours with stained armpits and a new appreciation for your own job. Barring the unforeseen, you are out on parole for four more years.
I have to say, though, this human drama is as seen through the jaded eyes of a 40-something year old woman who has run through the BMV spanking line for multiple name changes, re-titling, lost documents, transferred plates, an expired license, failed eye exam, and a motorcyle riding endorsement. My son, who has been there only once, on the exciting occasion of getting his learner's permit, thinks it's the berries.
Now that, my friends, is cause for concern. As soon as you walk into a BMV in Indiana, there is an armed, rather inept looking security guard. This looks like the last-post-before-retirement kind of job. I worry about the guard's aim and reflexes because one look into the room, and one can tell there are people on the verge of going postal on both sides of the long desk. On one side--people with layers of thin, fluttery, easily lost, yet criticaly important and irreplaceable documents pressed tightly in their sweaty hands. On the other--people who are not paid enough to take any crap from anyone, who make up for lack of monetary remuneration by displaying their power over how your life proceeds from here on out. I mentally practice hitting the deck.
At the first weigh-in station, my documents are snatched and all forms of identification are confiscated, hastily paper-clipped together, and jammed into a burgeoning file, hopefully under the correct letter. There is no going home at this point unless I choose to walk out as the person with no provable identity and no license to operate a motor vehicle. In return for every piece of
paper that allows me to more swiftly run the rat race, I get a number, which I grip like death.
One time, I heard some poor, trusting sod try to retrieve his documents. He told the document-collecting drone behind the counter that they had taken them from him yesterday and had asked that he return the next day with additional documents. This was the next day, and here he was with his additional documents, and now they were telling him they did not have the documents from the day before. That it was against policy to keep documents overnight, and if it was against policy then, obviously, it didn't happen. As any idiot should know. In any case, the BMV was not at fault. I felt this man's panic two spots away in line and began to sweat. It was painful to watch.
As I wait with my lucky lotto number, I hear people heaving huge sighs all around. The most common sort of sigh is the irritated, unbelieving sigh issued from the BMV worker who has found herself up against the wall with some arcane practice or requirement that will not let her continue her processing of this customer. The worker-person must, when faced with a troublemaker, consult with the head BMV honcho in the clear glass office in the corner whose job was probably falsely touted as a "promotion". If the problem is grevious enough, the honcho is brought out to explain, but usually the line worker is sent back out, slogging slowly over, to tell you why you can't do what you need to do, or, more hopefully, that you can for an additional fee. Bring it on. Additional fees are minor in comparison to the fear of returning.
If all goes well, you're out of there in a couple of hours with stained armpits and a new appreciation for your own job. Barring the unforeseen, you are out on parole for four more years.
I have to say, though, this human drama is as seen through the jaded eyes of a 40-something year old woman who has run through the BMV spanking line for multiple name changes, re-titling, lost documents, transferred plates, an expired license, failed eye exam, and a motorcyle riding endorsement. My son, who has been there only once, on the exciting occasion of getting his learner's permit, thinks it's the berries.
Comments
the whole document thing is too much. once they take them away from me i feel like i'm about to have a heart attack.
i'm due for a trip there soon. WAH!