Mixed Thoughts: Department of Public Frustration

Here I sit in a scuffed black plastic chair with a back that is detached on one side, so that I can’t lean back, and man oh man do I want to lean back after being stuck in this thing for…let’s see…going on two hours now. It’s just as well that I can’t lean back, as the man behind me is of questionable health, his frequent sneezes unencumbered by any obstacle, free to spray in whatever direction he aims his head. I would move, but in spite of its disrepair, I seem to have snagged the best seat in the house. It’s on the aisle and in the first row, giving me the psychological space I need to endure this ordeal.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, illuminating the dowdy, nondescript room with a harsh, clinical light and bouncing off closed mini-blinds that really ought to be open to let in the day’s sunshine. Smokers congregate outside the front door, frequently sticking their heads inside to check on things, keeping the room infused with a hint of cigarette smell. The hard linoleum-tile floor has seen better days, having been trodden upon by hundreds of thousands of poor souls since they were installed—from the looks of the place—in the ’70s. What appears to be a old, mirror-less dressing table sits along one wall, acting as a stand for some flyers and brochures. Everything seems typical for a place like this, where appearances don’t count for much. Sort of like a prison.

Running nearly the length of another wall, a chest-high countertop offers plenty of room for civil servants to process the grim-faced people in a line that snakes nearly to the front door along the remaining two walls. But, par for the course in such a place, there’s only one person behind the counter—at least, there was; she’s been gone awhile. Taking a break, maybe. No matter—she’s only handing out numbers, and there are plenty of people already waiting with numbers. In an hour’s time, less than a fourth of the people sitting in chairs will have even moved anyway.

The entrance to the premises is a metal-framed glass double door with several letter-sized documents taped inside it, facing outward, so that people outside can peruse them at their leisure. The printing ought to be facing in, though, since nobody with any sense is going to waste time outside once hit in the face with the fact that this place is packed and they better get the heck in line. Picked-at remnants of tape from long-gone documents obscure clear vision of the smokers outside, as does a sign reading USE OTHER DOOR on the door everyone is using.

Each time the door opens, a gust of Marlboro-scented wind surprises the mini-blinds next to it, blasting them toward the filled chairs. People rear back to avoid the collision but never think to raise the blinds to fix the problem. The blinds crash back to the window with a discordant metallic sound, awakening a baby who screams in terror. A man nearby raises a hand to his face and rubs his brow with his eyes squeezed shut, then leans his head back and looks at the ceiling, exhaling through his mouth in desperation.

What fun.

For some unknown reason, I wasn’t allowed to renew my driver’s license online this time. So I had to come to the local DPS office, a godforsaken place, and sit among throngs of people who possess varying degrees of both patience and decibel level. My chair is one of about 150, arranged in three large groups so that two-thirds of the people are facing the other third as if waiting for a show of some kind. But there’s nothing to see, other than an old, tiny television on a battered metal stand with a yellowed sign that is bigger than the television itself, sporting Magic-Markered block letters proclaiming DO NOT TOUCH THE TV. An old episode of Perry Mason nears its end credits, the volume nearly off, nobody paying attention to it. There’s a flat-screen monitor way up high in a corner, looking unusually modern for a state-government office, listing numbers currently being served.

Right now, it’s all about the number. If there is a show, it’s in looking for a person to stand up and move along each time a number is called over the loudspeaker. If nobody moves, everyone starts murmuring. People pan their heads back and forth and all around as if in need of an exorcism, in a quest to determine whether the person is here and has either fallen asleep or is in electronic hypnosis, oblivious to the excitement around them.

People want action. They want whoever has that number to get a move-on. But I’ve discovered that people are rarely asleep or distracted when their numbers are called. Usually they’ve left, probably because they had to get back to work. Or they simply had to find a bathroom, which, cruelly, is not available here even though interminable waits are the norm. And so the next number is called, and the people that remain in the room seem to mentally high-five each other, having beat the system by getting two numbers closer in one fell swoop.

I look over at the TV; Ironside is coming on. Must be the Raymond Burr Channel. I look up at the monitor just as the loudspeaker announces Serving number 744 at window 8. I look down at my number again—like everyone does with theirs, as if it might magically change to the one being called. It’s 110, like it was earlier. They’re at 744? No, I didn’t miss my turn. They just like to mix the numbers up, but only enough to frustrate people who think they’re next. Like me, when they called 109 about 20 minutes ago. Since then, they’ve called several much larger numbers, including—as if to mock me—999.

It’s 20 minutes later. I’m at my window now, 110 finally having been called—and not a minute too soon, as the lady sitting next to me had started clipping her nails, collecting the clippings in her lap. As I rounded the corner out of the room and toward my window, I noticed her stand straight up abruptly and slap the clippings onto the floor.

There are 12 windows. Only three of them are open, even though several workers are loitering around behind them. I wonder how many people have to be in the other room before they start using all 12 windows. I feel a surge of irritation and want to yell out You have got to be kidding me. Instead, I step up to my window, behind which is a woman who is looking at her cell phone and doesn’t look up or acknowledge me at all. I wait a few seconds. Nothing. Hello, I finally say. She looks up and without a word, thrusts her open hand toward me. I place the form I have been holding into her hand and she starts typing something, craning her head toward a monitor that looks like the TV in the other room.

I look around at the unstaffed windows and half-listen to a water-cooler conversation three people are having. None of them are saying anything like Well, I need to get back to my window. The phrase Your tax dollars at work pops into my head. I also notice a soda machine, and wonder what genius put that thing in here rather than out there.

I marvel at the inefficiency of the system and the complacency of the staff, and wonder why government offices have to be this way. Or why they are allowed to be this way. Why The People don’t rise up and demand something better. Why it’s 2011 outside, but 1971 in here.

I sign a form, have my picture made, and put my thumbs on a glass screen. Can’t be too clean, I think, looking around for a bottle of hand sanitizer, forgetting what year it is in this place. Look through there, the woman then says, indicating the eye-test gizmo to the left of me. I avoid touching my forehead to the black rubber opening, and can’t see anything. Press down with your head, she says. I reluctantly do, activating the device so I can read some letters out loud and identify some colors, the germs from thousands of other foreheads migrating to mine. Done, I pull my head back and make a mental note to wash my face ASAP. Press down with your head? Who designed this thing?

But I wasn’t smiling yet, an older woman at another window declares after a camera flashes. She’s dismayed that the man behind the window doesn’t give her a second chance. I wonder why people care so much what their driver’s license photo looks like, but maybe it’s a woman thing. I smiled when my picture was taken, but only because I’m close to freedom after nearly three hours of utter misery. I wonder if they’re going to give me a new suit when I leave. Instead, they charge me $25 and send me on my way.

The door to freedom says EXIT ONLY. I take that to mean I can only exit, not scream hallelujah! at being sprung. I make it outside and feel the sun on my germ-infested face, my stomach grumbling loudly and craving a toasted sub from the sandwich shop a few doors down. I head over and step inside as a harried woman with a young child bursts out of the restroom and runs out the door, toward the DPS office. I guess she didn’t see the sign: BATHROOM FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY. In her hand, she clutches a slip of paper reading 111.

I’m sure she has plenty of time. — SB

To read my previous post, click here.