Most people would consider a 91-minute wait in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles to be a big, rotund pain in the rear. In this case, I would agree with most people.
However, there are several different attitudes than one can take into this line. One very popular attitude is to mope, complain, and whine about having to waste one's time in such a boring, stupid fashion. However, another attitude -- which I am happy to say I adopted for much of my recent foray into DMV purgatory -- is to make the best of it, look around, and do a bit of people-watching.
After all, what better place is there to people-watch than the DMV? It is a fact -- if you drive, you will be stuck in line at the DMV on occasion. All types trudge slowly through that uncomfortable line.
Therefore, I decided to mentally record my observations about myself and the others who managed to cross my path that day at the Galletti Way DMV office. What conclusions are there to draw from these observations? Well, the only solid one I was able to come up with is that people are weird, funny, often freakish characters. Maybe you'll come up with something more profound. Anyway, away we go...
3:16 p.m.: I enter my place in line. I am there to register a car I have recently gotten, a 1990 Chevy Corsica. With my documents in my hand, I look around and wonder how long this line will take.
3:18 p.m.: As I look around the line, my thoughts are disrupted by what has to be one of the largest burps I have ever heard in my entire life. I turn around to see the source of this beefy belch -- and see a 4-year-old boy holding his hand over his mouth with eyes as big as saucers. I am unsure what to make of this.
3:24 p.m.: I happen to see that the gentleman in front of me is holding his smog check. "Hmm," I think to myself. "Isn't my smog check proof in my car?"
3:25 p.m.: I reach my car in the parking lot to grab my smog check, muttering some very colorful words to myself.
3:26 p.m.: I get back in line, seven spots behind where I originally was. I did not ask for my place in line back, feeling first, that would be rude, and second, that I deserve to wait a little longer for being such an idiot.
3:31 p.m.: A loud "thunk" sound draws my attention to a nearby children's desk, where a little boy has just tipped himself over by sitting in the desk and leaning forward. The boy is unharmed, and seems quite embarrassed. I try not to laugh.
3:39 p.m.: I reach where my original spot in line was. I mutter more phrases to myself.
3:47 p.m.: Boredom starts to set in. I take the time to determine I am the tallest person in the line right now, a fact which I feel is odd considering I'm only 6 foot 2, and that there are at least 60 people in line.
3:50 p.m.: My back, which has some problems, starts to hurt. I start to change my attitude, starting to mope, complain, and whine about having to waste one's time in such a boring, stupid fashion.
4:10 p.m.: It dawns on me that it is probably no coincidence the DMV and the Nevada Mental Health Institute are so close together.
4:19 p.m.: Myself and three people ahead of me get into a conversation. For some reason, the topic: Area 51 and weird lights in the sky.
4:29 p.m.: A large woman, about 250 pounds, passes by wearing only a bathing suit. I am revolted because, quite frankly, such a sight is highly unnecessary.
4:31 p.m.: Only about eight people in front of me to go! At this point, a man two people ahead of me remarks that he has to get a temporary, 10-day permit. It breaks my heart -- because that can be accomplished by standing in another line, about one-sixth the size of the one we're in. Because there are only about five people ahead of him now, I say nothing.
4:34 p.m.: Rampant speculation in the line focuses on two topics: The fact that six out of 20-plus windows are open, and the fate of people standing in line when the office closes.
4:41 p.m.: I am in the front of the line. I suddenly feel very self-conscious of the fact that everybody in the building is looking at me, wanting to be in the very place that I am right now.
4:42 p.m.: I am called to the counter. "I am SOOOOOO glad to see you," I tell the clerk. "I am sure you are," she replies.
4:47 p.m.: The clerk gives me my stuff, says I am done, and I leave the office. I stop to thank God that such opportunities at DMV purgatory only come once every several years.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who sincerely thanks his father for getting his new car into working shape. Jimmy's column appears here Tuesdays; he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.