By the YU Writers’ Guild
Each month, the YU Writers’ Guild accepts submissions for a short story following a specific theme. This month’s theme was “miscommunication” featuring stories that think about a way characters can interpret something multiple ways. Members of the club voted on a short story to be featured in the YU Observer. For the month of October, “Department of Motor Vehicles” written by Shneur Agronin was selected.
Editor’s Note: The basic inspiration for this story comes from an episode of the TV show King of the Hill
“Now serving appointment #287,” an exhausted voice droned over the PA system. Behind a desk separated by a foggy plastic barrier, a heavyset woman sat filling out mountains of paperwork.
A young lady picked herself up out of her seat and limped over to the counter. I noticed the cracked blue cast on her left leg as she hobbled along with downcast eyes and frizzy hair. I assumed the three children – the oldest seemed seven or eight, maybe – playing tag all about the sweltering DMV office were hers, as they paused their game here and there to tug on her polo shirt and ask when they could go home.
She was just one of many in this diverse crowd of tortured souls. To my left, a scrawny old man wore a tattered tie-dye t-shirt, the top portion of which was obscured by an unkempt, yellowing beard. The stench of marijuana leapt right off of his plaid bandana and punched me in the nose. Woodstock ended a few years ago, buddy, I thought. Must’ve been too high to get the memo. To my right, a young Chinese couple nervously practiced speaking a mixture of broken English and Mandarin with each other. I only knew that ‘cause I spent a few years as a metalworker in Taiwan during the Gulf War. The woman absentmindedly rocked a swaddled baby while her husband or boyfriend pointed at various words on his learner’s permit, awkwardly read them to her, and translated them. Both of them, with their shiny, jet black hair and flawless skin, looked to be in their mid-twenties.
Then, there was me.
You know how some people have sleeves of tattoos on their arms? Well, I wore a full-on suit. Fluorescent blue and red dragons coiled upward around both of my biceps, which, unlike the old stoner’s to my left, were used to lifting heavy loads at the auto shop I work at. Regina, my wife’s name, spanned the width of my chest in lightning-bolt letters, although my black ACDC shirt and leather jacket covered them at the moment. Slithering serpents, five gargantuan tally marks (one for each month I spent behind bars for beating up both my younger daughter’s ex-boyfriend and the lousy public defender who couldn’t save my ass in court), fishnet, Jesus’s thorn-crowned corpse nailed to the crucifix, and a couple of Jolly Roger skulls for good measure, decorated all six feet and five inches of me from top to bottom.
I couldn’t wait to renew my motorcycle license. When my dad got a Harley in the 70s, I knew I had to get my own hands on one when I grew up. About twenty grand and a second mortgage later, my wish came true. On Sundays, after Church and Waffle House with Regina and the girls, I rode along the most magnificent stretch of I-90 in all of Arizona with twenty other bikers equally tatted up and ready to rock and roll. Whether or not the stares that met us while blasting Van Halen from our stereos, revving our engines in the Walmart parking lot, or splitting lanes of traffic, were admiring or disdainful, we didn’t care one bit. Everyone was jealous of us, deep down. Who wouldn’t be?
The lady with the broken leg limped away from the desk to the white canvas where they take your ID photo. I guess she and her kids were leaving soon, although they seemed content enough to keep running around overturning empty chairs.
“Now serving appointment #288.”
After two hours of sitting in that stiff, plastic seat, my ass was grateful. I stood up, and everyone stared as my head nearly hit the squeaky ceiling fan whirring away above me. I slicked back the wispy remnants of my graying hair, ran a calloused hand through my belly-button length beard, and hoisted up my Levi’s by the belt. My combat boots creaked as I got on my feet, and I couldn’t blame them – wouldn’t you do the same if three-hundred pounds of fifty-five-year-old ex-convict mechanic stood on top of you?
I handed the woman my social security form, insurance papers, registration, and all the other shit you need to bring to the God-forsaken DMV just to get a laminated card telling cops who catch me speeding that I know what I’m doing. I got my own picture taken – I donned my shades and smiled wide, ignoring the photographer’s instructions – and waited behind another desk to get my license. When she slipped it through a gap under the barrier and into my hand, I knew my hours waiting in this hell hole were all worth it. My eyes scanned the precious card, still warm from the printer, and I bid the suckers still waiting in the office a silent “Screw you!” as I marched out the doors into the dry Arizona air.
Butch Aikens, DOB: 11/1/1969, 67 Ivanhoe St., Flagstaff, AZ, 86002, Eyes: Hazel, Sex: F
Sex: F
Sex: F?!
I rubbed my eyes. Nope, Sex: F. I hadn’t gone blind just yet.
I bulldozed through the still-closing doors on my way back inside. The Chinese couple now stood in front of the desk, the man struggling to explain something about passports to the desk lady, and I interrupted him without hesitation.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you got my gender wrong,” my composure held together by an ever-thinning thread.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’m assisting these clients right now,” she answered, her voice brimming with frustration yet free of any actual care at the same time.
“No, you don’t understand! My license says that I’m a woman!”
I smashed it against the barrier. I was yelling now, and the couple was smart enough to back off. Their baby was wailing now. Big deal. They got my damn gender wrong. I should be the one crying. The desk lady seemed as unfazed as before.
“Well, do you have your birth certificate with you?”
“Why the hell would I bring that? Just look at my old license!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but once I printed out your new license, your old one became void.”
“Ma’am?!”
“I can’t get sued if I call you what’s on the license,” she explained with a voice devoid of any concern.
“Do I look like a woman to you?!” I said through gritted teeth.
She sighed deeply, rubbing her temples.
“Ma’am, if you have a problem, you can file a complaint on the DMV website and make an appointment to request a new license.”
“You call me ‘Ma’am’ one more time, I’ll give that bastard attorney another battery charge to lose for me. Change my damn license right NOW.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I called the cops today. You really wanna play this game, ma’am?”
She had a point. Jail meant no motorcycle, and I couldn’t have that. So, for one of the few times in my life, I quelled my temper, stormed out to my Harley, and rode home. Regina and the girls had a good laugh, and I thought, huh, maybe I can laugh along with them, too.
So, here I am again, my ass crammed into that same plastic chair, waiting my turn to solve a problem that never should’ve been. But I felt good that, in the end, I could just laugh it off. Hell, it was pretty funny, if you think about it.
“Now serving appointment #46.”
Hell yeah. Showtime, baby.
Papers. Photo. Snap. Moment of truth.
She slid my new new license under the barrier, and I scanned it eagerly.
Butch Aikens, DOB: 11/1/1969, 67 Ivanhoe St., Flagstaff, AZ, 86002, Eyes: Hazel, Sex: M.
Ah, yes. That sounds better.
Hold on.
Learner’s Permit.
I sighed. I really tried to keep it together this time, I really did. I just hope the jury believes that, too. I calmly walked back over to the desk lady, the same one as before, and, seeing me approach, her knowing smirk set me off.
Ever wonder if those plastic barriers could shatter if you hit them hard enough? I used to. Not anymore. She had it coming. So will my lawyer if he doesn’t get his act together.
Anyway, turns out you generally receive a more severe sentence the second time you commit a crime. Especially for aggravated assault and battery. And if your victim turned out to be pregnant. And a hemophiliac. What, I’m supposed to assume every heavyset woman is expecting and be familiar with her medical background? I just hope my lawyer’s got a stronger defense than that.
Whatever. At least they got my gender right in my mug shot.