Vail Daily column: Delightful day at the DMV
Ryan Summerlin August 25, 2014
First, Mr. Dryer stops drying.
Just a few days later, Mr. Washer stops washing.
The proverbial “they” always say the proverbial “it” comes in threes, so imagine my eager anticipation the next day as I headed over to the DMV in Frisco.
Being completely non-stupidstitous, I pulled into an almost completely empty parking lot, save for one other car, convinced it was my lucky day. (Yes, a clear woo-woo contradiction, but you know what I mean.)
Walking through the door, I saw two lovely ladies sitting behind a counter and an otherwise empty room.
“Good morning,” I said with a cheerful smile, heading directly for their counter seemingly without a care in the world (though on the inside I felt like Obama walking into the golf clubhouse for a press conference).
“Please take a number,” said one of the government-funded mouthpieces as one finger suddenly pointed towards a device by the front door.
“Really?” I asked while visually scanning the room. “But there’s no one here.”
Without another word, the finger again gestured towards the number-taking device.
I sighed, spun around, grabbed a number and considered myself lucky that she was using her index finger.
Handing her the number (which she immediately crumpled up and tossed in the trash), I said, “I’m here to renew my license.”
“I need your current license and another form confirming your street address.”
“Ummmmm … ”
“Do you have a 1st Bank account?”
“Do you know where Wal-Mart is?”
“1st Bank’s right across from there. Just tell them we sent you and they’ll give you what you need.”
“That’s the only way?” I asked rather sheepishly (if you ask me).
Fast forward to a cute girl behind the 1st Bank counter, showing more cleavage than I remember bank tellers normally showing, asking, “How can I help you?”
Resisting the urge to sound like a smooth-talking 55-year-old happily married man, I told her my predicament, and she immediately bent down (I stopped looking, I swear) and whipped out a sheet of 1st Bank letterhead.
“Don’t you need my account number,” I asked?
“No, I just need your address.”
I gave it, she wrote it, and then handed me the apparently magical sheet of paper.
“Yes sir. We do a dozen of these every day.”
Back in the Happyville office, Broomhilda snatched the “Official 1st Bank” form, and without so much as a glance, folded it in half and filed it in folder 13, presumably so it could rest quietly alongside my earlier number.
She smiled, asked me to smile (for my new photo), handed me a paper license (“Good for 30 days, and no more!”), and shouted, “Next!”
The room was still empty.
I couldn’t wait to get home to see what was now wrong with the fridge.
Richard Carnes, of Edwards, writes weekly. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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