Reading: Or rather, skimming, Ebola by William T. Close, which Dad lent to me. It is a far cry from Richard Preston's The Hot Zone, a riveting work of nonfiction.

Background courtesy of
Ace of Space

DMV

On Sunday, Tab opened my wallet to give me a shopping card for the new Wegmans store. Then he noticed my driver's license. "Hey, your license expired yesterday!"

Oops. I had realized earlier this year that my license would expire on July 31, but I never received the usual renewal form, so I forgot all about it. I've always renewed my non-picture license by mail, but Tab convinced me I need a picture license this time, which meant a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Stephanie arrived at 1 p.m. (an hour late, which is all too typical for her) to take the twins out to lunch. I ate my own lunch, finished up the dishes, and then headed out to DMV.

2:05 p.m. After winding my way along the serpentine entrance to the DMV, I finally locate the parking area. I try to enter the building, but I'm unable to get all the way through the inner door as it is blocked by people waiting in the reception line. At this DMV, you first have to stand in line in order to find out which other line to go stand in. I notice that the yuppy-looking couple who were two people ahead of me in line have formed a tag-team. The wife is still standing in our line, but the husband has gone to stand in the line for Window 1, which stretches the length of the room.

2:17 p.m. The lady in front of me is arguing with the receptionist. "Why do I need a permit? I already have a Florida license!"

"Your Florida license gets you a permit, here. You still have to take the written test before you can have a New Jersey license."

"But I'm already a licensed driver!"

"That gets you out of taking the road test. You still have to do the written test."

The Florida transplant finally throws her hands up in the air and leaves. I approach the information desk, where the receptionist hands me a renewal form and sends me over to the line for Window 1.

2:20 p.m. I fill out my written form while standing in line. The tag-team yuppies had a good idea; they're near the front of the line now. While I'm waiting I watch an electronic message board, which is running news bites, factoids ("On this day in 1492, Christopher Columbus set sail from Spain on his first voyage of discovery") and capsule movie reviews, interspersed with messages to the DMV visitors ("Payment options include cash and personal checks. NO CREDIT CARDS!"). It could be worse. It could be a television tuned to a soap opera or Court TV.

2:34 p.m. I finally reach the counter and hand in my renewal form and my old license to a woman who looks suspiciously like someone I may have gone to junior high with. She tells me to have a seat and wait for my name to be called.

The waiting area is packed; I feel lucky to find an empty seat, particularly one on the end of a row. I hate to sit in the middle of a row with strangers on either side of me. Across from me is a young mother with a baby asleep in a stroller. The mother is jiggling the stroller absently; fortunately, the motion does not wake the baby. Several chairs down from her is a big man in a business suit who is twirling the end of his blond mustache. I watch him out of the corner of my eye; I've never actually seen anyone do that before. I thought only villains in old silent films twirled their mustaches.

I tire of people-watching after awhile, and pull out my book. It is a fictionalized account of the first big Ebola outbreak in Zaire in 1976. It is as dry as unbuttered toast; I end up skimming through the pages in search of something to hold my interest.

3:16 p.m. Periodically, the loudspeaker calls out the names of six or seven people to Window 4. Finally, I hear my name called. At least I think it is my name. My driver's license is in my married name, a long, consonant-studded Polish name that many find difficult to pronounce. I reach the window, turn in my check for $18, and am told to wait for my name to be called again for the picture.

3:28 p.m. I am called to Window 7. From here I can see through the windows to the room where people are taking the written test. "Written" is a misnomer; actually the test is computerized, and the results are instantaneous. I remember taking my written test in that room after I moved down here from Maine in order receive my New Jersey license.

"Look in this direction," says the DMV employee behind the camera. I've been here too long. All the employees are starting to look like people I went to junior high with. A quick flash and the picture is done. "I'll call you in a few minutes for your license," she says.

3:34 p.m. My name is called again, the surname once again mangled nearly beyond recognition. Back to Window 7 I go and pick up my license. The picture is not as bad as I'd feared. A couple years ago, Tab had a completely ridiculous driver's license photo. It cut him off mid-chin, with at least a half inch of blank space over his head, making him look like a midget. (Actually he's 6' feet tall).

And to think, I'd actually entertained thoughts of a visit to the bookstore this afternoon, maybe even a cup of tea in Border's Cafe. But this process ate up all my precious free time and now I have to go pick up Daniel. Fortunately, I don't have to renew my license again for another four years. But I'm still annoyed at the collosal waste of time today.

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