As a creative director, James wrote TV commercials, ads and radio spots for all kinds of familiar brands and products. He firmly believes in the adage that says, “You get only one exclamation point to use in your lifetime. Choose wisely.”
Singing the DMV Blues
No one ever looks forward to a visit to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) office. This unwanted excursion is on the same list as “Go to root canal appointment” and “Time to take colonoscopy prep liquid.” But there are times that a visit cannot be avoided.
Since I knew the local office closed at 5 PM and all I needed was a form, I waited until 4:50 to make my appearance. As I strode in, I thought, “Wonderful. There’s no one here. I’ll be out in seconds.”
I zipped past the annoying little machine that dispenses a ticket with a number on it, moved past a roomful of empty chairs and sauntered up to the counter. The one and only person behind it was occupied with something on his computer and took no recognition of my presence.
After coughing a few times, issuing a loud yawn and possibly making cat meow sounds, I caused him to stir. The civil servant slowly turned his head to acknowledge me and at snail speed, managed to utter, “Number?”
I said, “Number? I’m the only one here.”
He said, “You need a number.”
Looking around at the cavernous, empty room, I was about to ask “Why?” when I realized this was not a great idea. This imbecilic little man could make my life miserable by suddenly requiring me to show my birth certificate, the serial number of my dishwasher and demanding that I name three countries in Africa.
So I turned around, trod back to the entrance so the annoying little machine could spit out my number: 132. By the time I got back to the counter, the creep behind it was nowhere to be seen. So I sat in one of the uncomfortable, government provided plastic chairs until he appeared. Looking at the counter on the wall, he said, ”132.”
Playing it out, I paused and looked around to see if any of the imaginary people in the room might have this number. Seeing none, I approached the counter. His processor must have been running slowly, because I named the form I needed and he wordlessly stared at me. I give good stare, as well, so our stare-athon continued for what seemed like an hour.
Trust me, I’ve stared for even less time at the baboons at the zoo, but they at least entertain you with leaps, grimaces and scratching. This guy did none of that. Instead, he reached under the counter and glacially came up with my form.
I resisted the temptation to ask him if he was always this unpleasant or if it’s a job requirement but realized he had the power to put my name on a DMV watch list and have me ticketed for parking in my own driveway.
On the way out, I really didn’t mean to trip over the table holding the number machine, sending it crashing to the floor.