Jon22: The Website of Jonathan Dobres

Boston’s Department of Motor Vehicles is a little strange. This should hardly come as a surprise.  We let gay people get married here, for God’s sake.  For one thing, the DMV is called the RMV–Registry of Motor Vehicles. I will be referring to it as the DMV from here on out, because really, that’s what it’s supposed to be called. For God’s sake.

Here’s why I had to go to the DMV. I got served for jury duty in Florida, despite the fact that I haven’t lived there for six years. I called and explained that I’m no longer a resident of the state, and they said that was fine, all I had to do was prove that I am currently a resident of Massachusetts. “How?” I asked. “Just fax us a copy of your Massachusetts driver’s license,” they said. “Oh…no problem,” I responded. I haven’t driven a car since coming to Boston and hadn’t bothered to transfer my license. So, off to the DMV. Where all dreams go to die.

Boston’s DMV is an unassuming building protected by ancient magics and onyx-fanged demons. In other words, it’s in Chinatown, right next to the Orange Line. It’s also the only full service DMV for a city of 600,000 people. It opens at 8:30AM on the dot, and a foolish person might assume that showing up at 8:30AM is a wise thing to do. I, however, am no fool. I arrived at 7:50AM and secured the coveted position of First Person in Line. This was a smart move, as the wait times at the Boston DMV swell to the two hour range almost immediately. Compare this to any other city in Massachusetts. Now look at how smart I am. Look. By the time 8:30 came around there was already a line of forty people behind me.

To transfer an out of state license to Massachusetts, the DMV requires, as you might imagine, a few things. One thing is the paperwork, which I had printed out and completed the night before because, again, I am so smart. Massachusetts also requires proof of identification, proof of date of birth, proof of residence, and proof of signature. Each of these must come from four separate and quite specific sources. Each must pass through the fire of the Jade Dragon and be bound to the Ruling Ring. Each will be given to a Princess of the Crystal for safekeeping during the transaction. A sword may be required here. Possibly also a pendant.

I had everything I needed: Florida license, social security card, a check with my address printed on it, a copy of my lease, and the Emerald of Agranon. The copy of my lease was necessary because I didn’t have my passport or my birth certificate. The Emerald of Agranon was just pretty.  I was the first person in line. I had stood outside for forty-five minutes guarding my spot and breathing other peoples’ second hand smoke. I would just like to point that out. Again. This was going to be so easy. Until the clerk noticed that my glorified slum lord of a landlady neglected to put her own signature on my lease. Damn my landlady for cutting corners. Damn that clerk for just having had her morning coffee. Sorry, Mario, but our princess is in another castle. “Come back tomorrow,” said the clerk. The Jade Dragon spat my identification onto the floor, all my plans reduced to ashes. At the Boston DMV, they even do you the courtesy of giving you a piece of paper with the words “APPLICATION REJECTION” at the top, just so it can feel like you’re also not getting into college.

I briefly considered taking the lease, turning around quickly, forging my landlady’s signature, and turning around again to say, “See? See! It was signed after all! How’d you miss that!?” I probably would have thrown some glitter in the clerk’s face to distract her. In retrospect, I realize that I had no glitter and this was a terrible idea, so I’m glad that instead I stopped off after work and got a copy of my signed lease from the glorified slum lord. I greeted her with the sentence, “We’re thinking of moving. Can I have a copy of my lease?” I get the feeling that there may have been better sentences to use in this situation, but I didn’t really care. Nor do I care about the scuff marks that my desk chair has left on those much talked about hardwood floors of hers. Please.

So, take two. I am—damn the caffeinated micro machine of a woman who got there first—the second person in line. I get my numbered ticket from the woman at the greeting desk. “Oh, you were here yesterday,” she said. I sure was, lady. I sure was.

I get a different clerk this time, one that I recognize from the day before. This is a woman who yesterday dealt with a patron who said that the DMV had called her by saying, “The DMV doesn’t call people.” She also refused to give someone a pen. On each day that I was there. This is the woman I get. Things go well. My address and photo are still in the computer from the previous day, and although my lack of stereoscopic vision causes me some momentary embarrassment on the eye test, everything goes according to plan. The lease is accepted. Then, then there is a beeping noise.

“Oh…did you try to do this yesterday?”

“I sure did.”

“You’ve been timed out. You’re supposed to wait about three days before trying this transaction again. Someone should have told you that. Didn’t they tell you that?”

“No!” I bolded and italicized this, and I realize that a better writer could come up with a way to express my tone of voice without resorting to typographic tricks.  It’s just hard to say that I sounded like Daffy Duck after the part where he and Bugs Bunny go, “Rabbit Season, Duck Season, Rabbit Season, Duck Season, Duck Season, Rabbit Season, HA!  FIRE!”

“Hang on, let me see if I can call the help line and get this cleared up.  Sit down and I’ll come get you in about fifteen minutes.”

“FIX IT FIX IT FIX IT,” I thought.  Really loudly.

In the end, she did.  I assume it was because she sensed my Killing Aura, the one that threatened to screw with all the equipment in the room Lawnmower Man style.  I thanked her for her help and told her how much I appreciated the extra effort, because I really did.  She thanked me for thanking her, because working at the DMV is pretty thankless, and it’s nice to be appreciated.  Then she charged me ninety dollars for my new license.   Thanks, DMV!