Bureaucracy

I had to do it. I had to go. The dreaded place. The one place in the world none of us would want to go. It's dark there. It smells funny. It's hot. It's cramped. They are rude to you. They are mean to you. They make you follow rules that are...well they just seem arbitrary.

You know where I'm talking about... Anyone over the age of 16 knows exactly where I'm talking about.

Today I went to:

The

B

M

V

AAAAAAAAAAAaaaHHHHHHhhhhhhhh!

I know right?

It couldn't be avoided. We need to get a title, registration, plates and such for our new (to us) van.

So this morning, I dropped my lovely wife off at work and went to visit our friends at the BMV. It was 8:40 a.m. For me, on my day off, I call that "o'dark thirty."

I was ready though, I had some Starbucks. I took my iPod. I had my cell phone to text or maybe even tweet.

My first sign of trouble came when I started to walk from my truck to the building. In HUGE RED LETTERS across the front window: "No Food or Drink."

Sigh! Okay, coffee goes back into the truck. I'm pondering the question of why you can eat or drink at the library where there are hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of computers and books, but you can do neither at the BMV where you might spill on ... on... What? The floor? The line divider? Maybe the hard wooden bench or card table chairs they have for some to sit on?

Walking in the door, I noted that the line didn't seem very long. Wow! That's different. Okay, let me just check my cell - Oh, look at that big sign. NO CELLPHONE USE WHATSOEVER - Okay, never mind.

Not even gonna risk the iPod with the short line.

Shortly it was my turn. "Next" came the shout from "Corky." Now, I'm not judging, but "Corky" is your baseball coach, or your bartender. Do you really expect Corky to be the lady behind the counter at the BMV?

"Hi," I said, "I bought a van and I need to get a title, plates, the whole nine yards."

"We don't do titles here," Corky explained. "To get a title you have to go to 1970 Broad Street, where they do titles. Unless you want us to do it, but it won't be ready for two weeks." Corky then handed me directions to 1970 Broad Street.

I couldn't help but wonder how it could take two weeks to get my title from 1970 Broad Street to where we were in Hilliard. Is that a covered wagon trip? Bicycle courier with a lot of breaks in between? Pony Express?

"I can wait," I said which led to this little exchange.

Corky: Do you have plates?

Jim: We have plates.

Corky: From another car?

Jim: No, there are plates on the car from our friends who sold us the van.

Corky: Those are no good as soon as you buy the vehicle. We can sell you a temporary tag while you wait for your title though.

Jim: How much is a temporary tag? (All the while considering gas costs for the obviously long trip to 1970 Broad Street.)

Corky: $10.50.

Jim: Okay, what do we do next?

Corky set about entering whatever she needed to enter in her "not visible to me" computer? I'm guessing.

A young man came to the counter to be helped by the lady next to me. He was playing football at Ohio State he explained (I didn't recognize him. He'll probably win a Heisman or something) and he needed to get his license switched from Florida to Ohio. The woman at the counter told him that he would need his social security card. "Where is your social security card?" She asked. "Um, in Florida." Poor kid, bet he had to go to 1970 Broad Street too. I didn't hear the rest of the transaction clearly.

Another young man approached. (Corky was taking her time.) "I need to get my i.d." he said handing what looked like a photocopied birth record of some sort to the lady. "OH," she said, "this is a photocopy." She then went on a long rant about how it was obviously a photocopy from a scrapbook, and she really wasn't concerned about how it was all the young man had and all his mother had to give him, and NO she could not accept that. She could see notebook marks on it even.

Ouch?

"What color is the vehicle?" (Corky was ready for me again.)

"Champagne," I said. Hey, that's what Netter called it.

"Point to the chart." Corky said, clearly irritated.

Sure enough, on the counter there was a chart for vehicle color. Our van is not champagne at all. It is number 15, tan.

Alrighty then.

Corky asked a co-worker to figure out my sales tax, told me to write my check to Northwest Kiwanis, (not the BMV?) and $265 later I have a piece of cardboard / temporary tag, a certificate of registration, and a promise that in two weeks I can come back and buy my real license plates.

Just waiting on the covered wagon I guess.