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When I was a kid, my main concern was whether or not the cafeteria was serving ‘government cheese’ that day. I have since grown up and found out that the government public service sector has their hands in a lot more than just a sketchy American cheese food product.

One of the US government’s big points of interaction for every American over sixteen is the DMV. In our culture of too much, too often, a crowded visit and a brief, underpurposed exam is considered a right of passage. In other cultures you have to kill an animal, shave your head, or get a tattoo . . . and those are just the girly ones. Nope, here you have to visit the DMV.

The California DMV (which I have had the pleasure of personally visiting) is, and has historically been, one of the worst on record. When Schwartzenegger came into office there, his first public act was to fire all the DMV managerial staff, thus earning him the hearts of millions and the title of ‘Governator’. Sadly, though this kept already astronomical registration fees from getting worse, it didn’t change the average experience at the centers . . .

If you look up the Cali DMV site, there is supposed to be a picture of a man and a woman using online services to register. Um, what does it show them doing when the page doesn’t load? And when you do go online, there are about a billion questions, starting with ‘do you want to register your boat?’ Just for fun, I tried logging in but it kicked me out. Not because I’m no longer a resident of that state, but because the answers to my security questions were wrong! I kid you not. Apparently the Cal DMV knows where I went to elementary school and I do not.

When I did go in and visit in person the first time, I was woefully underprepared. I’ve taken numbers to wait at places before. But this time it wasn’t 23 or 18, it was B76. I waited and waited. I read the material flashing by on the TV monitors and learned a few fun facts about the DMV. Apparently the first person to use the California DMV was a sugar magnet. Yes, a sugar magnet. Though I am sure they meant “magnate”, it brought to my mind a very sticky rich man always trying to outrun white grains coming from sugar bowls and pour spouts alike while small white packets chase him down the street. One of the facts I learned about the DMV from those tidbits was that they can’t spell, or have bad vocab or both. I was so bored and irritated that when they finally called B76 I jumped up and yelled “Bingo”. It was the only thing that cracked a smile on any of my fellow visitors’ faces. And not on any of the employees. Maybe they’d heard that before . . .

When I got to the DMV here in Tennessee (after being led miles astray by my GPS), I let myself in the front door with a messenger bag. I had work papers to look at, a magazine and a half-finished novel. The employees looked at me like I was nuts. And I was. They smiled at me and said ‘just come over to this open desk’. Ten minutes later, I didn’t have the appointment I expected, but my picture had been taken and my warm license was already cooling in my hand. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll carry that license with seriously stunned look on my face.

Things are different here – as I know I’ve said many times before. The public offices are neat and clean. And the people behind the windows are . . . well, they don’t resemble refugees from depression era America. They smile and they try to be nice. I’m not really sure what to do with them.

Just this morning, I called the social security office. I was given directions by an actual person who can string words together with the right cadence. She told me: you just come on in, mornings were relatively slow if you got there before nine. And don’t miss them when you drive by, they’re right next to “Dos Margaritas”.

I wondered if that meant something. If that was a sign from God that there was a margarita joint right next to the social security office. Would I need dos margaritas after I was done?

It turned out it didn’t matter. Maybe the staff was so nice because they shared a building with “Guns and Stuff”. The two shops’ entry doors were adjacent and one had a sign that read “This is not the door to the social security office”.

Yes, Social Security Checks, Guns and Margaritas all in one place. Tennessee sure knows how to treat its citizens!

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