Spent the afternoon yesterday in that place almost all of us have to go at least once every four years. This place is the manifestation of the very worst that we have to offer as a society. It is an ecosystem of beaureaucracy and mediocrity. It is full of people that really have no where else to be and nothing else to accomplish in their day. They have no sense of purpose, urgency, or direction. And when you are forced to visit there, take time out of your busy day of dealing with others like you, to go and mingle with those at the DMV, it is like being beamed to a totally different culture.

The department of motor vehicles is the cathedral of forms, fees, and regulations. It is altar of unproductivity, uncreativity, and inefficiency. For DMV employees it is the cradle of their womb. A warm, safe place to suckle a paycheck from the taxpayers, a sanctuary for non-performers, where even workers rejected from a communist road crew could find employment. The DMV worker has a love for forms, stamps, fees, rules, and order. The DMV worker has ultimate authority over a vital cog in your wheel of life. They stand between you and the highway, between stationery and mobility, between you and the American way of life. If you irritate them, they will delay your access to your God given right to drive. If you pander them they will help you navigate the unchartered waters of needless regulation.

The DMW is the collector of proof and fees. Proof of who you are, where you live, your height, your weight, your age, your unphotogenicity. They want proof you own your car, you buy insurance. And they want it up to date, or they fine you. They want you to pay your tags, your auto license, your driver license, pay for your tests, your endorsements, and you better have paid your tickets. They have classes you have to take if you violated a rule, they have forms to fill out upon completion, they have fees to pay for the forms, you take tehm to your insurance office, and then return to the DMV with more forms and fees. It is an endless trail of legislative zealousness all aimed at regulating the roads and our access to them.

I don't think anyone grows up wanting to work the DMV. I hope not anyway. It is a refuge for those of semi-intelligence who otherwise couldn't make it in the private world. It is the Hollywood coffee shop for aspiring accountants, controllers, and middle managers. Those in the society who didn't have what it takes to bog the corporate world productivity, so they do it at the DMV. They have all the power, they have to hurry for no one, and they just have to remain sedate while they irritate, frustrate, and anger those of us who deem their mandatory visit an intrusion. They can stare blankly at you while you explain with perfect logic, perhaps a tad too vehemently that you really do live at 123 Main St., or you don't know where your Social Security Card is. And they have no reason to hurry you along. For one thing the DMV has, is an endless supply of customers. They have a monopoly on highway access, and they don't really care if you go away satisfied.

The troubling thing is that most of their customers don't appear to even be DMV employee material. They sit in the waiting room, in an array of bad T-shirts touting everything from Ozzy Osbourne to the 103rd Annual Summer Rodeo. They hold their 44 oz. Guzzlers, on their stomachs, until they need to excuse themselves for a smoke. They have bad teeth, bad hair, and bad odor. They have unfocused look in their too close together eyes. Their children run around with no concept for volume control or personal space. And they all seem content, unhurried, and very ill prepared for the documentation that will be required of them.

One can sit there waiting for their turn and imagine the DMV worker going home, sort of. They must have regular modest homes; they must have families, probably grocery clerks for spouses. They must have children who get averages grades and are docile, obedient and easy to overlook.

But what about those others, sitting around waiting their turn? What on Earth do these people do when they are not at the DMV? What is next on their agenda? I can only imagine they go the Employment Office, then the welfare office, and finally the county health clinic. Where do these people come from? And why every time I go to the DMV do I feel like the last normal person on the planet?

What do all the other people do? You know the ones that you deal with on a daily basis, the people that have clean clothes, decent bodies, hair that looks attended to. The people you share a laugh with, a ride with with, go out to lunch with. Those that don't make you squirm when they sit next to you. How the hell do these people get access to the highways and byways of life? Because they are never in the DMV, at least not when I am in there. Is there some sort of special normal person time, which no one told me about?

About the Author

Mac McMann writes from the male point of view at http://www.manslant.com.