no command to smile this time (not again!)

I stuck it in my back pocket after picking up my boarding pass at the IAH airport, thinking that when I went through security, I'd be flashing it a couple of times anyway. I didn't even realize it was missing until I got in to New Orleans, hopped out of the shuttle, and needed to provide ID to get into my hotel room. Suddenly my hard-earned driver's license was nowhere to be found, making me very, very unhappy and filling me with a deep sense of dread.

Steady readers know about my year-long fiasco with TxDPS, and so I won't recount that hellish scenario again. But since I have really bad luck with driver's licenses, I assumed the worst: that I would not be able to get onto my return flight without it, that it would not be found, that there would be hours of waiting at the DPS to get a new one, that some crazy glitch in the system would delay the production of a new one . . . for these and other reasons, I was in no hurry to get back to the DPS. (Yeah, I checked and if you lose your license you cannot just "order a new one on-line." You have to go get one.)

While on the flight home (which I got on using my work ID), I also realized that I needed a license to present to the people at the D______ Unit I'll be taking my students to visit for a prison field trip this coming Friday. This morning, I remembered that JP commented on this blog about the one DPS you could go to in the city that, from what he knew, was almost always empty. I emailed him and got both sympathy and directions, and headed South right after work, at 3pm.

The miracle is this: I was there for about a total of fifteen minutes. I stood behind a couple of people in line and then boom! my photo was being taken and I was issued a temporary license and on my way home. I have no great hopes for its smoothe arrival on Hawthorne, but I am keeping my fingers crossed.

What's weird is that, even though the wait was short, the workers were very much the same as the ones I encountered at the place on South Gessner, who I figured were overworked and, for this reason, machine-like and unhappy. No one smiled or looked me in the eye. No one provided an explanation for what was going on. There were a lot of one-word commands that I had to ask to be repeated so I could understand.

I assumed, going in, that, since I just got a license, the replacement would be a digital copy of the old one, which is, surely, somewhere on file. This means that I figured that I wouldn't be getting my photo taken, but would just pay a fee and someone would place an order for a new copy. When I first arrived, I explained that I lost my license and needed a replacement. "Fill this out and come back when you're done." Anyone could quickly and easily just check the "no" boxes and scribble a fast signature on the form right there but, rather than point this out, I just circled around and got back in the four-person line. When I get back to the desk, about 45 seconds later, she points to another line of waiting motorists, "Line to your right." I wanted to say, "The line for what?" but, again, kept my mouth shut and got in it.

I stand in the short line and get called forward from behind a screen with a finger wave, "Next," the woman orders. "Hello," I smile, "I lost my license and I'd like to --". Before I can say, "get it replaced," she interrupts me by saying "Social security." "O, I'm sorry what? O, you need my social . . . ?" I am looking to find her eyes but she is staring at a computer screen. Her mouth is a straight line across. "Okay, sure," I say and recite three numbers before I realize she is not listening to me, so I stop and say, "O, wait a minute, so, do you want the number or the actual card?" Reply: "Card." Not looking at me. I put the card on the counter. She types in numbers and frowns deeply at the screen, reading my record, I guess. "Middle name," she says. I tell her. More tapping and scrolling and frowning. "Street you live on?" "Hawthorne," I say, trying to exactly mimic the robotic sound to her voice. She looks some more and then, satisfied, says "Ten dollars." I use the zombified voice again as I hand her cash, "Here. You. Go." She takes the money and says, dully, "Sign." "Yes," I drone, wanting to enjoy this little game, but my spirits are dampened by her joylessness, her profound alienation -- how much she must truly hate this job! Then, "Red light. Left thumb." Then, "Right thumb." Mm-hm. "Walk to the X." I move as robotically as I can over to what looks no different than the scuffmarks all over the floor except that it seems a little gummier from having once had black electrical tape on it in an "X" shape. No command to smile this time. I stare dumbly at the camera and the flash pops. The whole time, I wanted to ask, "But can't you just send a replacement license? Do I really need a brand new one?" But this just doesn't feel like the kind of place where you are allowed to ask questions, only take commands. She pulls a temporary license out and signs it and pushes it toward me: "Sign." "New license in the mail two- to six-weeks. Next." I mimic her a final time, trying to sound as bland and exhausted as she does, "Thank. You. So. Much." I push each word out of my mouth, and dodder over to the exit sign and leave. It's all I can do to not stick my arms out in front of me to impersonate a sleepwalking zombie.

The good news is that I now know the place to go get your license renewed or replaced that is the least crowded place, ever. (Thanks, JP!) Rather than publish it, lest the secret get out and it become overcrowded, just know that you can use me as a resource and I'll send you the directions, as long as you promise to do the robot thing with your voice, too.