DMV analog

Between the Internet and cell phones, it's hard to remember the old days of analog interaction. You know, calling around to every airline to compare ticket prices, paying bills with stamps and envelopes, rolling up to the drive-in window at the bank and talking to a real live teller to get some cash. Yes, the dawn of the digital age has cut a lot of red tape, but alas not all of it, as I found out when I went to apply for a Texas drivers license.

Unlike California, the Texas DMV does not take appointments, phone, Internet or otherwise. To transact any business, you have to take your physical body and a number, park your 21st-century self in a hard, plastic chair and wait. In a twisted tip of the hat to the modern age, your number ticket does come with a printout of the estimated time until served. Mine read 'three hours and 11 minutes.' Ahhh...the good, ol' days. This time-honored method of obtaining a legal permit to operate a motor vehicle hasn't changed in decades, maybe even centuries.

Luckily, I didn't have to check my technology at the door of this time warp, so I had my laptop and lesson plans at the ready. I also had a good long time to eavesdrop on the conversations of those around me. And why not? Public places, like DMV waiting rooms and airport lounges are so safe in their anonymity, so egalitarian and transitory. I will never see the people I spent the morning with, and I perked up my ears to help pass the time.

The man leaning against the wall next to me was sharing with an admiring woman he'd just met how he and his wife adopted seven premature, biracial babies. This was awhile ago because the oldest was sitting two rows back waiting to take her driving test while two pre-teen brothers shuffled a bored orbit between the sister and dad. The young woman in the next row up was texting and led with, "I love how I got up this morning and just felt normal." All the words were fully spelled out.

The couple sitting next to me made me smile because they reminded me of my sister Bec and her husband Chris. It wasn't their physical appearance, but their steady patter of jocular extroverted conversation that bounced around topics through the two hours we waited side by side (they were four numbers--about 45 minutes--ahead of me). I dipped in and out, as I typed away but managed to pick up quite a lot about their lives. They had both come to renew their licenses (a family who wades through red tape together stays together?) and left their son, Ethan, at home. Much of the wait time was spent trying to figure out how to get Ethan (who sounded about 11 or 12) to do his chores in a timely manner. Mom was talking through an intricate system wherein Ethan would be paid a certain amount of money for each chore completed. Dad interjected every now and then with commentary about how much Ethan was being offered relative to his own childhood allowance.

Dad: He can't make more than I did in college.

Mom: Which was?

Dad: $20 a week! And it was plenty for pizza and gas!

Mom: Right now, if all of this works, he's making about $13.50. I have to write this down--where's my pen?

Although Mom's forthright and, yes, jolly demeanor reminded me of Bec, my veteran teacher sister would never make the amateur mistake of devising a kid-management system that is more complex for the adult than the child. Mom was offering the hapless Ethan $1 to vacuum his room, $2.50 to fold laundry, and a mere 75 cents for taking out the trash. (Mom: C'mon! It takes five minutes! Dad: That's a lot more than I made in high school!) Moreover, when Ethan failed to complete a task, she would deduct money from his total, according to the value of the chore. I was tempted to offer some teacherly advice to protect her sanity, when the kid himself dialed in to check on his parents' ETA. My opinion of Ethan (and my private eye rolling vis a vis his mother) increased when there was no squawking from the other end of the line even after Mom required, "another grammar page before you play the Wii." When they hung up, Dad floated the idea of charging Ethan taxes on his earnings, prompted by good-natured (if somewhat obvious) asides about our taxpayer dollars at work here at the DMV. I stopped listening.

Two hours and 55 minutes later (I guess they were running 16 minutes ahead of schedule!), I rejoined the year 2010 in possession of my temporary license: a computer printout of my information and a fuzzy rendition of the picture. As for the permanent version? It should arrive in 4-6 weeks. Right about the same time Ethan's mother decides she's had enough and chucks the chore plan...