"Do you have current ID?" the bank employee asked. I whipped out my driver's license...the one with the "good" picture of me, so good I actually enjoyed slapping it down on counters when asked.
It was a confident, smiling picture, taken eight years ago on a day that I had picked. I was dressed smartly, new haircut, makeup applied tastefully, a day frozen in time, and of course… eight years ago.
The employee frowned. "Uh, did you realize your license has expired?" he carefully asked. "What? No, I am sure it is ok. I haven't received any notices in the mail. Maybe the update sticker came off?"
He handed it back. The date indicated I had been blissfully driving around for the last five months with an expired license.
"I am sorry, but I cannot proceed with this transaction until you return with a valid and current form of government ID. Do you have a current passport?"
"Yes I do", I said, "I will return with it today."
I left the bank hoping I could remember where we were currently storing our passports. I have a history of coming up with yet "better" places to store such documents, and then forgetting where that "better" place was.
I hurried home, now aware of every car that looked remotely like a police car, wondering how I had ever managed to drive around so confidently for the last five months while harboring such a secret.
After successfully finding my passport, I thought the best course of action would be to go directly to the DMV and take care of this matter, lest I get pulled over during this brief criminal career.
It would, of course, mean a trip to the local Department of Motor Vehicles office (DMV), fortunately only a few blocks away, but still one of the most dreaded, yet fascinating places one could spend their afternoon. I say “afternoon,” since I had by now given up any hope of returning to my office.
As I walked into our home, one glance in the entryway mirror told me that any new photos at the DMV would not be the picture of eight years ago. Not only was I eight years older, I also needed a haircut, and a nasty fever blister was in “full bloom” on my upper lip.
There was no time to reapply makeup, and my face bore the markings of an already long day, a day probably not made lighter by an unexpected Friday afternoon trip to the DMV.
No longer a novice at these things, I armed myself with the local daily paper and the Wall Street Journal. Reading would help pass the time and avoid the awkwardness of sitting in those hard little plastic chairs, staring at the people across the aisle, such as an overly tattooed couple talking trivial matters on their cell phones.
The long line at the “take a number” machine was my first clue that this was going to be a special day at the DMV.
Passing up the express line set up for simpler transactions, I graciously waited to take a number in the longer line. Settling in with my papers, I noted about twenty numbers ahead of me.
When the 50s started to be called I “tuned in” for mine. Number 49 responded, number 50, no response....I waited for 52...half poised to rise..."number 53?"
I could not believe my ears! What are the chances that in the last twenty numbers, MINE was the one that was skipped?
Number 53 responded before I could object.
I walked up behind person 53 waiving my 52 and was told that I would have to take my “problem” to the receptionist, (the one who supervised the little number machine with the long line.)
I walked directly to the front of the line. The receptionist instructed me to stand right beside the machine while she yelled out my number between directing other “newbies” to either the fast lane or the little machine spitting out the magic numbers.
Standing there, in front of everyone with someone repeatedly calling out my “number”, I half expected someone to come up and inspect my teeth, or kick my shins for bone strength. That badly needed haircut would have helped, and I don't sleep as well as I did eight years ago. My value was ebbing away by the minute!
Finally, one of the “window” people took pity on me and called me over. Filling out the preliminary paperwork from my passport and social security card, she kindly explained how the state's little reminder postcards sometimes get lost in the mail or people toss them accidentally. I was starting to feel like this was all going to end well, when she pushed my paperwork toward me, directed me to go to the end of the counter, place my paperwork on the top of the pile, and be seated, again.
Confident that I was surely now close to the end, I obediently placed two of the three documents in this world that define I exist (at least legally), on top of a fairly short pile of papers, and then reseated myself in another hard, plastic chair.
A man with a broken nose glared across from me. His face told a story his mouth needn't tell. Eyes simmered with aggravation as he looked from me to the person now being served at the new window, the one talking on her cell phone, while the DMV woman calmly filled out paperwork.
Cell Phone girl continued to talk on her phone for many more minutes, the DMV woman remained nonplussed, evidently determined to keep everyone in order, no matter what the wait.
Broken Nose however, was getting red in the face, his breathing getting noticeably shallower. I hid behind my paper afraid to engage him, quite sure now that the only thing holding him from attacking us all was likely a recent prison release that might be at stake should he misbehave.
Finally, Cell Phone girl finished her business. We all breathed a sigh of relief as DMV woman slowly lifted the pile of paper work, papers that held the key to the rest of our afternoon. Broken Nose let out an exasperated breath, but at least he was breathing again.
Newspaper forgotten now, we all watched DMV woman with renewed hope. However, instead of taking the next person's paperwork, she begin laying out all the documents in a line on her desk, PRE-processing everyone’s forms; ripping, stapling, and finally reorganizing the pile while we all watched in helpless frustration.
By now, everything DMV woman did held us in some kind of victim’s fascination.
When she finally called the first of us forward all I could think of was "get this over with...gotta get out of here before Broken Nose or someone like him goes postal!"
Things were moving along now. Broken Nose leaned forward, ready to leap in the air at the call of his name. Now he was at the window, I was next, things were looking up.
"Linda" she said. At first I looked around me, unaware there was yet another person ahead of me. "Linda" she said more loudly. Then I remembered. She was calling out my "legal" name, not the shortened "Lin" I have responded to for more years than "Linda" ever saw. I hurried forward, cramming newspapers under my arm.
Looking over my documents again, she motioned for me to sit down in the photo chair. "Do we really have to take another picture?" I petitioned. "Can't you just put a new sticker on the back?” "Nope, gotta have a new picture every eight years now. Smile if you want to, look right there at that little blue button."
Flash! went the light in my eyes. She looked at her computer screen, a frown now breaking her stony face. "Sit back a little this time, and tilt your head more this way" she motioned. "Smile if ya want to." she said.
Remembering some of the foolish, almost evil grins that have been documented on other legal documents, I quickly made the decision that a clear-eyed, lips-slightly-parted look might be a more credible photo. My face was catching up with this idea when, FLASH! went the camera again.
Her eyes focused in close to her computer screen. I searched her face for any feedback. A smile began to play at the corners of her mouth. It was the first smile I had seen in all the time we had watched her work. It was not a good kind of smile. Trepidation gripped me, no one else had made her smile!
Her printer began to click, click. She ripped the paper triumphantly and handed me a photocopy of what would soon be on my most primary piece of ID.
I recoiled at the face on the paper. It could have been on any post office wall or police station. Limp hair framed a haggard face. Surprised eyes hung over a droopy mouth. The fever blister looked suspiciously like some kind of meth addict's lesion.
I stared in horror at the visage. "This is terrible picture.” I cried.
Can you take another one?" She stepped back, her eyes boring into mine, the evil smile getting more comfortable now in its place. "Sure honey, IF you want to get back in that line and pay $27".
I looked back at her, she was obviously enjoying this. Was this her idea of a good moment in her small, sad, little world? I stared hard into her face until her smile gave way to uneasiness. The smile began to melt some. I wanted her to feel the uncertainty.
When I was sure I had given her back some of her own medicine, I smiled. Leaning forward I said, "Well, it's not a beauty contest now is it?" and walked away, grateful that Broken Nose's picture was probably better than mine.
In the car I studied the haggard woman in the picture, wondering if the fresh face I saw in my own mirror most mornings was some kind of self deception.
Maybe I had a second life at night, walking the streets in some kind of unconscious state, more dead than alive. I took a deep breath, at least I was alive. I had survived the DMV for another eight years, and had the ugly proof in my wallet.
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