TheBanyanTree: I am an idiot...

[Julie Anna Teague]

Scott wrote:
> I'm afraid you would have lost me at the assembling supplies needed for
> sticker scraping part.

I was already agog at the wiping off the old sticker with alcohol part.  Maybe
there is something wrong with me that I never worry about these things.  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 very traumatic events, 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 could not find the documents they took the day before. 
They claimed they did not have them.  That they were returned to the man, or
that they never took them, or something, but in any case, the BMV was not at
fault.  I felt this man's panic two line-dwellers away and began to sweat.  It
was too 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, went faced with a troublemaker, consult with
the head BMV honcho in the clear glass office in the corner whose job was
probably falsely advertised 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, that 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.  

Julie