When I arrived at the LAX rental car facility late on Saturday evening in early October, I was ready to get in the car, ride to my friend’s house and sleep. I was so tired in fact that when the borderline English speaking lady behind the counter asked if I knew that my license had expired, I thought she was asking if I minded driving a Lexus! (License + Expired—Lexus… ok I was really tired…) The net result was that I had no car for the week.
So… instead of having my own mode of transportation to flit from place to place taking pictures of all the marvels LA has to offer (beaches, Getty museum, etc.) I had to take a cab from the house where I was staying with the Lloyds to the Burbank Train station. I had to purchase a day pass (which thankfully covered metro as well). I had to ride the train to Union Station and pick up the Red Line Metro and take it to the Gold Line to the Pico station where I had to walk 3 blocks to the convention center.
All because DMV didn’t send me a notice about my license expiring.
“Why weren’t you aware that it was about to expire?”, you might well ask. There are two main reasons:
- We moved back to the DC area a little over a year ago and at that time I requested a new license with our new address and a new photo. I erroneously assumed that they would start my 5-years-until-next-renewal from that date. But no, they “grandfathered” my expiration date in to the new card.
- Since I work from home I only drive once a week—maybe twice—depending on whether my wife needs me to run an errand on the weekend. So I don’t have much opportunity to even use my license.
Well, I am back from L.A., and I made it to last weekend and decided to go to the DMV Saturday morning when they opened so there wouldn’t be a long line. Right. I think had I arrived an hour before the DMV opened I would have found people waiting in line as though it were the final installment of the Harry Potter movies.
Inside the lobby the patron is greeted by a lady behind a desk—the gatekeeper. I am sure that under normal circumstances she is a lovely woman. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, her husband probably bought her decaf coffee instead of the goods, because she was far from being the life and soul of the party. I stated my business and she handed me a ticket stub and pointed in the direction of the seats in a manner not unlike the Ghost of Christmas Future pointing for Scrooge.
Thankfully I had brought a good book—Her Fearful Symmetry, for the interested reader. When the automated voice-announcer called my number and told me the appropriate kiosk to approach I counted myself fortunate that it had only been about an hour.
The woman before me evidently drank her coffee from the same pot as the gatekeeper because she wasn’t much of an improvement from her colleague. She spoke in an even monotone, and I was thinking what a great poker player she would make when she asked me to stand in front of the camera to have my photo taken. I followed her directions and waited for the click. She paused and told me to remove my glasses. I did so. Then I smiled—a large dimpled one. She paused again and said, “Sir, please don’t smile.” Since the shiny happy people at the Warrenton Department of Motor Vehicles had well nigh sapped the remaining joy from my life it was not difficult to comply with her request. I gave her my best mug shot face. When she was done I asked her, “Tell me seriously: When people leave, do you ever laugh at some of the photos you have taken of them?” Totally deadpan, she responded, “Why would I laugh, sir?” Wow—tough crowd.
I left her presence feeling better and lighter of heart, the farther away I got, and counted my blessings, knowing that I wouldn’t have to go back for another five years…