By J. D. Pendry
My day that is. I walked up to the counter, proper paperwork in hand. The gentlemen, who never once looked at me, nary a glance, inquired “What are you here for?” The look on his face suggested a laxative might be in order. “Good morning. Registration renewal”, I offered. “Did you get a renewal notice?” “Yessir.” Glancing in my direction but never making eye contact, he ripped a ticket number from the desktop machine and handed it to me. Such a pleasant exchange. Laxative for certain. The ticket read D613.
I sat down. At 9 AM there wasn’t much of a crowd. Still, it seemed to me like there were many able-bodied people there that time of the morning in a country where we reportedly have a million more unfilled jobs than we have people looking for work. Thinking positively, I figured they must be working the night shift. Maybe over at the 24-hour Super Center. Well all of them but the guy with the long pony-tail and a Fu Manchu. A Sheriff’s Deputy walked in with him in tow. Something about an expired registration. Most definitely he was hopelessly trapped in the 60’s. The low, almost mumbling pot head manner of expression was the giveaway. The deputy should have administered a urinalysis.
All around there were signs. “Avoid the wait. Renew Online.” Most everyone I could see waiting for the automaton to call their number had their noses buried in a cell phone. I figured they were all tech savvy enough to complete an online renewal. Maybe if the sign added: And you can do it from your smart phone.
The numbering system remains a mystery. I watched and listened while the numbers ticked off. D610, D611, D612 all sent to the same window out of about a dozen. Then the lady at that window, stood, grabbed her purse and coffee cup, pushed her chair under the table and walked out. By then, it was about 9:30 AM. The place opened at 8:30, break time is 9:30. I wondered if they had any job openings. A001, A002, A003…. After what seemed like a long while, a new lady showed up at another window. She plopped some stuff down and walked away. Coffee cup in hand she finally returned, fidgeted with her chair, the papers on her desktop, took a piece of paper from beneath her keyboard, and started pecking away. It was a password under the keyboard I guessed. Access to the entire state’s DMV data base. D613. I mentally did my happy dance and about 2 minutes later I walked out the door pondering whether I’d prefer the online experience. Then it occurred to me that the people running this operation also run that one.
It was rainy out. Lately I could say that about any day but I have yet to review the specifications for the Ark. It’s more than a week since I last mowed the lawn. When it finally dries out, mowing should be an adventure. I found a dead rabbit kitten the last time I mowed. It wasn’t me that did it. Likely feral cats. The same ones that use my flower beds for litter boxes.
Headed up the boulevard doing the 50-mph limit, an elderly gentleman pulled out in front of me and accelerated to a blistering 20-mph. On a wet, water covered road in his light in the backside pick-up truck. Using my exceptional driving skills, I was able to avoid catastrophe. I smiled and tipped the bill of my cap as I passed. He was a kindly looking old fellow. No, I did not tip it with that finger. This is West Virginia and there was likely a loaded weapon nearby although the DMV left me in the mood for a running gun battle. It wasn’t two whole minutes before another nitwit did it again. That’s when I thought one more time boy and all hades is going to break loose.
Kind of behind with things here in the bunker. Someone told me that retired life is like having 7-day weekends. Clearly that was made up by someone hoping to retire someday. There’s always plenty to do as I explained to one the American Journal writers, recently I’m busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest. Problem is, I’m always doing the necessary things when I want to be doing other stuff. But, back to my day of retired life.
Suzie-Q and I determined we needed a piece of furniture so we left the DMV headed for the furniture store. We were greeted at the door by a kindly looking lady. She spoke quite softly, which means I barely heard a word she said. We are looking for a chest of drawers we explained. She said follow me. She was not very mobile, but finally directed us to some displays and pointed out a couple of selections. Suzie-Q, who is rather matter of fact, declared those are the ugliest things she’d ever seen and wouldn’t consider them even if they were free. I got into whistling mode and wandered away. Unassisted, we finally located an oak chest that what we wanted, bought it and departed. We went to lunch, the first pleasant experience of the day.
Retired life is good, but sometimes my brain clutters up with stuff like this that you must endure. Please hit the share button multiple times. If I have a good week, I may make 3 cents from Google ads. Okay, I’ll try to move along to something serious. Truthfully, probably not.
© 2019 J. D. Pendry, J. D. Pendry’s American Journal, All Rights Reserved, Email JD: firstname.lastname@example.org