DMV

I'm confused, wait... where do I go? Where do I get a number? Does anyone have a pen? Ok... ok, I got it. I am sitting at the DMV. I have a small receipt with bright blue letters yelling B108. The screen above reads B089. Oh good, not too bad. I have meditative music to mask the automated woman announcing the next lucky number. She is relentless and diligent at her job. The numbers range through G so she is a busy woman. Two seats away from me sits a silent but not inanimate rock-er out-er... apparently his headphones are creating a different DMV experience for him than mine are for me. A worker behind the counter is lingering his eyes on mine whenever he can catch my glance. He seems nice enough but I am happily enamored elsewhere. In fact, that enamor is the very reason I am parking it at the DMV (pun definitely intended). There are two government employees thumbing through a box of chocolates trying to perk up the day with the perfect chocolaty fillings. One woman is absent minded as she administers the eye exam, probably wondering what's for lunch. Her comrades are having beef stew. There is a framed photograph of Arnold Schwarzenegger propped on a back wall filing cabinet. His hands are neatly folded in front of his professionally, gray suited self and he sits ahead of an American flag backdrop. It's funny to sit here looking at the officiality of this photo. There is something about it that is more of a parody than reality. Like he is going to tear off his gray double-breasted ensemble, with pre-set ripping seems, and reveal his shiny gold speedo and well oiled muscular physique. His governing abilities second to what is really important in California. The best part of this entire scene is that his politically coifed hair has remained perfectly in place, as has his black nylon socks made-up nd wing tips. All the while, Maria is clapping just a few feet away, a little embarrassed, but proud and supportive all the way. Just like I am of my man. Ooohp... there's my number!