From “The Scratching Post”:A day at the DMV

By Ken Marks

[Originally posted on The Scratching Post, January 26, 2019. Republished here by permission of the author.]

In September of 2017, I had a heart and kidney transplant, and a long convalescence began. I thought I might never drive again. I canceled my auto insurance, let my license lapse, and ignored the notice to renew my registration.
    As a year passed, my thinking reversed. Yes, I would become a highway hazard again. I would go through the hassle and expense of renewing everything. And I resolved to succumb to an insidious scheme known as Real ID.
    The purpose of the Real ID Act was to make us all more secure. We can prove we are who we say we are, and anyone in a position of authority can believe it with confidence. Just have a look at my certified Real ID driver’s license. There…I am not an illegal immigrant, an escaped convict, a known terrorist, or hiding out for a nefarious reason, and this proves it!
    But the implications of possessing this form of ID are ominous. The Real ID Act tells us the Secretary of Homeland Security can decide, without legislative approval, the “official purposes” that require us to present a Real ID driver’s license or Real ID card. So if she says, “Show it or you can’t fly,” a law is thereby enacted. If she says, “Show it or you can’t vote,” same thing. If she says, “Show it or you can’t apply for a job,” yep, that too. Just to ring your alarm bell, consider our current Secretary of Homeland Security, Kirstjen Nielsen. She’s the bitch who separated border crossers from their kids and neglected the paperwork needed to reunite them. She’s the one in whose custody two sick children died. She’s the one who invents immigrant crime stats at the president’s bidding.

But back to my story…. In October of 2018, I made an online appointment with my local DMV office to accomplish all I intended. It was for 1 p.m. on the day after Christmas. The DMV website sent me a confirmation number just to seal the deal, and I congratulated myself for being so farsighted.
    On the appointed day and hour, Linda and I arrived at the DMV. The parking lot was full. A line stretched ten yards out the front doors. No problem – I had an appointment. A woman was seated at a table just inside the doors. “Everybody go to the end of the line!” she yelled. “I have an appointment,” I said. “Doesn’t matter, end of the line. When you get to the front, go to the bank of computers and get a confirmation number.” “But I already have a confirmation number.” “Oh, I see. Well, since you’re being pushy, go on in and stand behind the green line.”
    The Master of the Green Line wasn’t any more helpful. He noodled with his computer for a while and assigned me a new identifier, G133, a slot in a giant queue. “Watch one of the TV screens. When G133 comes up, you’ll see what window to go to.” I found a chair among six or seven dozen other waiters and fixed my eyes on the nearest TV screen. It showed that G94 was being served. In minutes, I got worse news. Besides the Gnnn identifiers, Annn, Bnnn, Ennn, and Fnnn identifiers were popping up! And half the windows had no one behind them. Some appointment this was!
    Almost two hours later, the TV announced G133 and directed me to Window 13. An omen? I told the young woman there about all I wanted to accomplish. She promptly tested my eyesight and asked for $224. Was she prescient? I hadn’t been quizzed on California driving law, so I might not qualify for a license. Which would make a new registration pointless.
    Then we came to the part about getting a Real ID. I laid before her all the evidence of an innocent, well-meaning human being: my old driver’s license, my passport, proof of residency, and a government document (a 1040 tax form for 2017) that showed my social security number. I didn’t bring my actual Social Security card because I’d stuck it in some long-forgotten hidey-hole.
    “No, these aren’t enough,” she said. “If you don’t show your Social Security card, you must show a 1099 tax form in its place.” “But,” I objected, “Here’s a Form 1040, the master page for all tax returns.” “Sorry, it must be a 1099.” We went back and forth for another minute before she invited me to talk to her manager.

I waited for the manager to arrive at a spot 5 yards from Window 13. As she approached, I thought, Something wicked this way comes. She had what I call “cigarette-face.” It was furrowed, with a 4-pack-a-day patina. She spoke with a matching rasp. In short order, I knew she was a harpy, straight out of Greek and Roman mythology. Not familiar with harpies? Virgil said of them: abominable their droppings, their hands are talons, their faces haggard with hunger insatiable.
    She said it was a hard and fast rule, a Social Security card or a Form 1099. No exceptions. “Wait here a minute. I’ll show you something.” She returned with a DMV-internal paper that listed the materials a Real ID applicant must supply. “Look here. A Social Security card or a Form 1099. That’s it!” I said, “May I show you where you’re wrong?” “Please do,” she said with a smile.
    I showed her a copy of the California Driver Handbook. “Do you agree this is the handbook the DMV publishes and gives away free to everyone it deals with?” “Of course. There’s no need for sarcasm. Just get on with it.” “I just want your acknowledgment that this booklet represents the California DMV to the public.” “Get on with it.”
    I turned to page vi, which itemizes the materials a driver must present to get a Real ID license. “Please look at the third item. It says, Provide proof of Social Security number. No mention of a card or a Form 1099; just provide proof. I’ve done that.” She stiffened. Her best way out was to make me feel stupid. She said, “Mr. Marks, everyone in this room knows that it’s either the card or a 1099.” I was really furious. “Now you’re telling a lie. You know there’s no way that can be true.” Then she laid it on the line. “Look, we’ll give you a standard driver’s license and a new registration. Or nothing. It’s your decision.” There was nothing to do but take what they would give.
    I was tired. I made my way slowly – I use a cane – to the other side of the building to be photographed and quizzed. As I stepped up to the camera, I suddenly felt a crazy need to relieve my bladder. Did I want to walk back to where I had been, where the restrooms were? Did I want to enter a room that probably looked like a dog’s breakfast? No, I would go into Ironman mode. I had no idea what my face looked like when the shutter snapped – something between a smile, a cringe, determination, and desperation. (My license arrived 3 weeks later. I looked at it and swore an oath that no one but a police officer would ever lay eyes on it.)
    I chose to take the quiz on one of their computers. With my body clenched, it was no easy task. As I read the questions, a bizarre phenomenon came out of nowhere: I began to lose my grasp of English syntax. Subjects and objects played “here we go ’round the mulberry bush” with verbs. Every question had to be reread. I was never so glad to come to the end of a test. A DMV employee who was monitoring the testing looked concerned. “Did you pass?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, ruefully.
    I got my temporary license and registration, headed home, and made for the bathroom. I produced practically nothing, except for a sharp stinging sensation. Soon, I felt feverish, and there could be no doubt — I had a urinary infection. A lab test confirmed it. I lay in bed for two days and took antibiotics for a week.
    Now I’m fine again, and I’m driving. And Linda found my Social Security card! But will I ever go back to get a Real ID? Not until the shadow of that day passes from my psyche.

Copyright © 2019, 2021 by Ken Marks Ken Marks was a contributing editor with Paul Clark & Tom Lowe when “Moristotle” became “Moristotle & Co.” A brilliant photographer, witty conversationalist, and elegant writer, Ken contributed photographs, essays, and commentaries from mid-2008 through 2012. Late in 2013, Ken birthed the blog The Scratching Post. He also posts albums of his photos on Flickr.