I recently had the good fortune (please read that with intense sarcasm) of having to interact with the Department of Motor Vehicles, an organization who’s very name screams “painful experience” and “test of will”.

I was there to obtain historic tags for my 1999 Toyota Camry (nicknamed “Stan”) who – yes – is still on the road after all of these years, but is only driven occasionally by my youngest daughter (this disclaimer is provided to assure the DMV that I am following their rules and guidelines for obtaining and using the “historic” designation for the vehicle).  This has led to quite a few friendly jabs, especially from my brother, who when I informed him of my plans stated “ohhhh, are you going to take it to car shows or put it in a parade?”  Alas, I don’t think a white, late 90’s Toyota with a caved in rear fender, black side mirrors (which have been ripped off and replaced in its lifetime), and a black door handle (also recently replaced) would be welcome at any car show or parade event – unless it was to celebrate Holstein cow week – but I digress.

I – being a normal human being who likes to be prepared before interacting with any government agency – looked online for the requirements of the historic plates, printed and filled out the appropriate forms, gathered the corresponding information (proof of insurance, car title, etc.), and made an appointment, all clearly explained on the Maryland Department of Transportation’s (MDOT) website.  They made it very clear that due to the COVID restrictions still in place – an appointment was REQUIRED.  I then went to the DMV (arriving fifteen minutes early), masked up, and joined the line outside of the building to await my scheduled turn to take care of business.

The local MDOT/DMV office has a set of double doors at its entrance, and inside of these doors sits a state employee whose humor and tolerance for the general public disappeared back when Laserdisc movies were still the rage.  She would occasionally emerge and shout at new individuals in line.

“Do you have an appointment?” she yelled, pointing at me.

I nodded yes.

“What time?”

“1:30 PM”, I responded.  I still had ten minutes to go.

She glanced downward, seeing I had a slew of paperwork at the ready.

Satisfied, she slunk back into her hidey-hole inside the first set of doors.   This same scenario would repeat every few minutes, with new arrivals being questioned with the same script.  Then, a second, uniformed officer appeared and gave those waiting in line the COVID-spiel – clearly memorized and spoken with the enthusiasm of a flight attendant spouting safety information on the red-eye flight from LA to New York.

So here’s where I love people – especially my brethren here in Western Maryland. 

The line is ten to fifteen people deep, but now new arrivals would come up, take a look at the line, and then walk straight to the front door to inquire as to what to do.  Surely, the clearly visible queue was not meant for them. 

You is kind.  You is smart.  You is important.

You is very, very, mistaken – especially at the DMV.

This, as you can imagine, was greeted enthusiastically by not only those waiting patiently in line, but also by the bubbly state employee inside the door, who’s rage could be heard all the way back to where I was standing.

“Sir, you can’t just walk in here!”

“Put your mask on, please!”

“Do you have an appointment?  You have to have an appointment!”

Everyone had a story, but Frau Blucher was in no mood – cutting most of them off before they finished their first sentence.

As you can guess, most of these folks experiencing this goodwill looked like they were here for a cattle call audition for “Deliverance: The Musical”.  I’m surprised they even found the building, let alone were at one time issued a license to drive.  Many of them also came empty-handed – with no visible paperwork, which also signaled a trip for nothing, because even if they did get in (which they were not going to), they would have failed the first question asked at the info counter in spectacular fashion. 

The level of shock, dismay, and surprise that most of them displayed as they walked away was palpable.

“Paperwork?  I need paperwork?” 

“An appointment?  When did this start?” 

“COVID?  What’s that?  Why are you all wearing masks?”

“Oh look – the sun!  Maybe I shouldn’t stare right at it.”

I guess they’ll try the same tack tomorrow. 

Forty-five minutes later, I emerged with my plates.  Not a cross word to be had once I got inside.  Like a trip to my local Wal-Mart, it made me feel good about myself.

Is that wrong?