Two things were on my mind as I drove to the DMV: my eyes and my smile. In California, your driver's license renews twice automatically for five-year terms, then you have to go into the office for renewal, so they can check your vision and take a new photo.
They made a big deal about vision on the renewal form that came in the mail. It was against the law, they said, to withhold any changes in vision since your last check. I had none of the changes (macular degeneration, etc.) listed, but I did have 15 more years on the eyes and the moment when they asked me to read the eye chart weighed heavy on my mind.
And I have trouble smiling for the camera. Look at my photo there, just to the right. Karen got me to smile that much by saying, "Imagine you just found out you won the Pulitzer Prize." So I practiced, looking in the rear-view mirror. Totally goofy. I just don't know how to do it. How does Brad Pitt flash the pearlies with such relaxed effect? How does Harrison Ford bring up that lazy grin? Does he even think about it? Tell me: looking at the photo, can you tell that I am trying to grin, or survive the pain of a colorectal exam?
If you are a San Diegan, my closest DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles) was in El Cajon. You understand how lucky I was when a parking space opened up right by the doors. Inside was like stepping into a crowded terminal, supplicants clutching papers like the refugees in "Casablanca," clustered at a boarding gate to the highways of California. Maybe triple the crowd for an Oprah taping, all nondescript Does, Janes and Johns, no one standing out. There WAS one person, in flipflops, shorts, a blue wifebeater tshirt and a gut the size of the first atomic bomb.
The operation was take-a-number. I had tried last week to call for a reservation, but the first available was March 12. My number was G130. Facing the rows of seats were monitors, suspended from the ceiling, on which numbers appeared as they were announced by a mechanical woman's voice (thoughtfully softened by a bit of echo): "Now serving A084, at Window 14." And a lucky participant would scuttle forward. The G series of numbers stood at G066. Not so bad, if there hadn't also been A, B, C, D, E, F, H and J series showing on the screens.
I stood awhile, then sat down. I was nervous about my number. I felt to make sure it was in my jacket pocket, then with my other hand caught the slip in a pinch of fabric as I withdrew the feeling hand. When "G130" was called, I didn't want to be scuttling forward as my passport to freedom was fluttering to the floor back at my seat. There were several children, and they all seemed to be a year, or a year and a half, old. They studied each other like miniature social scientists. They were well-behaved and did not cry. I wondered if it was because the crowd and its expectant tension gave them some reason to believe that SpongeBob Squarepants was about to suddenly appear.
An hour had not quite passed, and the woman's voice announced "G98." I felt a thrill rush through my body. My G130 was assuming value. The reward, for each of us, was to be called. When I was called, would I be ready? I practiced my smile. Then just on impulse, I practiced a half-smile, first on the left side, then the right. And there it was! On the left side, it felt like a smile. On the right side, it felt like a grimace. It was the right side all along, that had been the trouble! I practiced again and again, just the left side. It felt good. Leave it to the DMV, to bring out a lifelong truth about a person.
At "G115" I was so jumpy that I stood up. Back at G079, I had reckoned my window would be No. 11. I found a standing place close to it. I packaged my checkbook, renewal form, and old license in one jacket pocket and located my number again in the opposite pocket. To my left, seated at the end of a row, was an older woman in dark glasses clutching her number: G154. She seemed abnormally calm.
G128. G129. My God, they were about to raise the curtain and I would have to speak my lines. "Now serving G130, at Window 9." It was ME. I scuttled forward into the custody of a nice man whose tag identified him as Robert. If his name had been Rick, I think I would have laughed out loud. "How are you?" he said. I said, "I'm so excited I hope I don't fall over." He smiled – a nice, easy smile – and said, "Well, let's have it," and I handed over the G130. "When I got here," I said, "it was G066."
"Just sign the form," Robert smiled, and I did, and wrote him a check for $28. "Now look at the chart." It was above and behind him. The letters stood out. I read them easily. "Go get your picture taken, and you're outta here." I reached over the counter and shook his hand. "Thanks for waiting," I said. "Thank YOU for waiting," he said. There was one in front of me in the photo line. It took less than a minute. I flashed the old half-smile and it was over. Into the sunny day I sauntered, good for another 200,000 miles. They will mail the new license to me. I can't wait to see the picture.
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