The Secretary of State is a horrifying, wholly awful place.
What is it about the S.O.S. that makes it the hangout for the trashiest members of society? I can't explain it, but I have never gone in there without immediately breaking into a cold sweat and thinking, I may not make it out of here alive!
There are several things you can always count on at the Secretary of State. The first is the incredibly long wait. It doesn't matter what time you go. Expect to wait. If you think you're slick and you're going to waltz in there ten minutes before they close, take them by surprise, and walk out, think again. About 70 other people had the same idea, and they are all sitting in those cheap plastic chairs with exasperated looks on their faces.
In the interest of being fair, I'm going to defend the S.O.S. employees. Having worked retail for eight long years prior to my current job, I can assure you with a high degree of certainty that 99 times out of 100, the long line is not the fault of an incompetent employee, but the idiot customer at the front of it. Either they don't speak English, or they're trying to pay with 4,500 rusty pennies, or they are unprepared for whatever it is they're doing there, or they're complaining about the long wait.
I love the people who think they should be exempt from waiting because they were too lazy to renew their licenses until the last day. That's my favorite. It's not as if there are any other options available to you, such as online renewal or handy do-it-yourself touchscreen kiosks. Oh wait, I'm sorry, those are available options. Shut up and sit down, asshole. It's not the employee's fault you're a procrastinator. I think they should institute a policy of telling customers who believe they should be bumped to the front of the line to write a 2,000 word essay on why they should be moved ahead, mostly because I'm curious how many idiots would actually do it.
Also dependable: Foreign Guy. I suppose it could be Foreign Lady too, but neither of them speak a word of English and they're applying for a driver's license. And they'll get one, too, because what I learned from tonight's visit is that the questions they ask you at the DMV don't really mean anything. It doesn't matter how many you get wrong, they'll keep asking until you get enough right to pass. Failed the eye test? Eh, no biggie. You don't really need to see that well while driving. As long as you can make out the large blurry objects moving around you are cars, you're good to go.
Perhaps the strangest thing you can count on is sweatpants. Sweatpants are big at the DMV, in more ways than one. I guess people figure they're going to be there a while, so they may as well be comfortable, but in the whole of recorded history there has never been a larger collection of dirty, stained, frayed, and tattered sweatpants than at any given time in the Secretary of State. It's almost like a required uniform. I feel like I'm being ostracized by the Swamp People that occupy that place for "wearin' them fancy blue jeans and collared shirts." I'm sorry, but my NASCAR shirt is currently being used to plug an oil leak under my car.
Then there's that person that always wants to talk to you. Why? Why must you torment me? I don't care how long you've been waiting, or about your foot infection, or your views on the current President and how the wait is all his fault. Please let me wait in relative peace and quiet. You aren't the only person in the world, or even in the room, being made to wait and you are not that important. Also, would it kill you to shower once in a while? Cologne or perfume is not the same as soap, and they do not mask your hideous body odor. Instead, it mingles with your stank (yes, that's right, "stank") and forms a noxious compound that could be used in chemical warfare.
As I sat there in my own chair, watching the gargantuan woman in front of me impatiently rocking back and forth in hers, wondering just how much longer it could hold out before snapping and sending her spilling backwards on top of me, crushing me to death, I knew the true meaning of fear. I survived tonight's trip to the S.O.S., but I'm a changed man. When you look death straight in the eye and only narrowly escape, well... an experience like that changes you forever.
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