Here is some writing, since we lack it
At Least I Can Legally Drive Again
Dec. 16th, 2004. 02:21 pm
Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: “Rebellion (Lies)” by Arcade Fire
I just returned from the DMV, and I am still recovering from the bureaucratic trauma—the horrors of red tape! Actually, it wasn’t that eventful, mainly because this was an express DMV and I arrived during a lull. Everything went smoothly and efficiently, which kinda disappointed me. I expected this to be a hellish ordeal, hours upon hours wasted in queue. I wanted to make it a daylong event; I planned on bringing a picnic lunch and a novel to read. Moreover, I wanted to see some shit go down—some rowdy woman arguing and screaming at the person at the desk, until some special forces with riot shields and mace deploy from a nondescript room, sirens scorching my eardrums and the obligatory Code Red lights twirling a mesh of red overhead, lasso-like, and the words Lockdown Procedure being repeated by a recording of woman who sounds as if her nose houses an insect infestation. So much for expectations.
After the quick and anticlimactic wait, I received my new license from a man resembling a black Bic ballpoint pen. As he handed me the card, I noticed he never said my name, which offend me a little—he hand no trouble announcing to Dave and Hank that they were ready, but Tristan?, no, he didn’t deserve a mention. And I saw my photo, and I made the same face as that in the photo, a weird apathetic cringe to my face, as though I had just fed a vampire. My hair, currently much too lengthy by my standards and thinned by the abrasive winter air, looks twice as long and voluminous as it should. This is because there is a shadow behind my head, and it causes a weird doubling effect for my hair, not unlike slightly crossing your eyes while looking at something.
I wanted to ask if anything could be done about the photo, but the conversation that played in mind didn’t seem promising:
—Are you sure, I can’t do anything? —I ask him.
—What could I possibly do? Photoshop it?
—Well, yeah. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.
—You’ve got to be kidding me. What do you take me for?
I want to say —One gun purchase away from a postal worker, —but I realize that he might in fact have a loaded gun behind the counter, hidden behind office tools, slightly visible through the jaws of a stapler. So I tell him —Um, I don’t think that’s a fair question.
—Real clever, —he says, laughing dryly, his thin body quivering skeletally, a leafless tree rattling in autumn winds— I see we have a comedian on our hands.
—Look. What if I give you twenty dollars? —I offer, suddenly wishing I could revoke the deal.
—What? —he asks, the word leaving his mouth like soldiers diving from a crashing plane— Get the fuck out of here!
***
I guess I just have to live with this identification picture—this identity!—for the next eight years. Fuck.
