Truth.
Here's the background story:
I went to highschool in Illinois, thusly receiving my Driver's Liscense for the first time in this state. If we passed the written test, driving test, and simulation test in our Driver's Education course in school, we could march straight into the DMV on our 16th birthdays, stand in line to take what would be one of the most un-flattering photos of our lives, and then pick up our ticket to freedom.. This first piece-of-cake experience with the Illinois Secretary of State's Office deceived me into believing the second time around it would be just as pleasant (though with a hopefully more appealing photo!).
After my parents relocated to sunny Miami, I made a trip to the Florida DMV to change my license. The process was minimal; enter, hand over your out-of-state liscense, relate your new address, take another photo (by this time I was become quite adept at looking cute), and exit with your new license.
I assumed, following logical thought patterns, that the process would be the same returning to Illinois. Upon my move back up to my [kind of] home state, I was shocked and agitated to find it was, for lack of a stronger adverb, NOT.
Firstly, DMVs in Chicago have very inconvenient hours for a business hour working, CTA riding citizen. I couldn't just pop in a few minutes before closing either; everyone applying for a license in Illinois, no matter if you previously had one in the state, must take the written test. I needed time - which eliminated the weekday eveing hours. One DMV offered a short window of time on Saturday morning - though out of the way on the far west side, this became my only option.
So, early one Saturday morning, dragged myself out of bed. I took public transportation for 1.5 hours, and then completed my trip with a half mile walk.No buses ran directly there.
I got in the initial screening line, waited for about twenty minutes, and was promptly rejected. Apparently, a copy of one's Social Security card in unacceptable, though no where on the website does it say this. I hung my head and headed home from what became a pointless four hour venture.
The following week, I tried again. Armed with the knowledge I accrued on my previous attempt, I readied myself the night before. I gathered an excessive selection of documents for each of the 4 categories required. I was not taking any chances; I debated with my mother whether or not I should bring any of my elementary school report cards. That morning, I, again, dragged myself out of bed, rode and hour and a half on bus and train, walked a half a mile, and stood in line for twenty minutes. In the rain.
I passed through the initial line with flying colors. After recieving a slip with a series of numbers on it, I took a seat to wait until I was called.
If this story wasn't eventful enough for you already, I'll be happy to tell you that, at this moment, I had one of the most intense deja vu moments of my waking life. A man sitting next to me, who was wearing a blue plaid jacket and grey cap, leaded over, and, with a sarcastic smile, asked, "Why do they need to see all of these documents?!". I immediately recognized him and our deja fait conversation. In my vision, I had responded with a quick quip, resulting from laughter in both parties. Now, when this man leaned over, all of this flashed through my mind in an instant, before he even spoke. I smirked as he opened his mouth to speak, already knowing what he was going to say. I faithfully repeated the response my witty dream-self had given, and we both laughed heartily. Unbelievable!
A few [introspective] minutes later, my number appeared on the screen. I came of my thoughts and back into the throw of the morning. I smiled as I approached the counter, and calmly laid down my thorough collection of documents. As the clerk tap, tap, tapped her long nails on the keyboard, she began to sort through my documents as I held my breath on the other side. Everything seemed to be going smoothly... until she started to discard the documents I had brought to fill the last category: proof of residence. One by one, she handed them back to me silently. When I asked what was wrong, she harshly informed me that they didn't qualify. Another, another, another... until that huge stack of documents I had so thoughtfully prepared had diminished to a measly two She considered these for a few minutes, holding them up to her face, scrutinizing the verbiage, licking the paper to ensure it was real . I cautiously asked her why the others, which, according to the [every trusty] website, were in perfect compliance, were void. She snapped back, telling me that they didn't have a date on them - a requirement that, again, was not specified on the website.
After a few more minutes of dissecting these documents, she informed me that most people would not accept these documents, but, because she was in a good mood today, she would accept. A wave of relieve washed over me, and I felt close to tears. I thanked her wholeheartedly for her kindness, and we parted ways awkwardly.
Little did I know, my day had just begun.
The next stop was the paying of the registration fee. Having rushed out of the house, I realized, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, that I didn't bring any cash. A big sign in the window informed me that credit cards were now accepted. As I worked my way through the line, I noticed the fine print; virtually every line of credit is accepted, save Visa. And, consistent with my luck, Visa is all I had.
I approached the window, and greeted my a kindly woman behind a glass partition. I explained my situation, and she was empathetic. She directed me to the nearest ATM, which, continuing with my current streak of fortune, was approximately 1.5 miles away. For lack of bus, I trekked a mile and a half through the sketchy West Side to an even sketchier Walgreen's. I got my cash, plus a little extra in case the need for bribery arose, and then trekked a mile and a half back to the dreaded DMV.
I moved to bypass the initial line and walk through the waiting area to the payment station, when I was stopped by two armed guards. I was told I would have to go through the line to get passed this point. I stammered, attempting to explain my situation while suppressing the crazed rage that had been slowly growing inside of me all morning. We bantered back and forth, until one finally grasped what I was saying, and allowed me to pass. Thank the LORD.
Up at the payment stations, I waited in another long line (it was later in the day at this point, and thusly much more crowded) and paid my dues. I made my way to the next step - realizing that I hadn't studied for the written exam again. I swore to myself that, if I failed the written test, I would not scream out loud. Or murder anyone.
Thankfully for the people present, I passed the test, and everyone lived. I moved on to the last hurdle: The Photo.
I waited in line, they called my name, I sat down in front of the screen, and, the second my behind touched the chair, SNAP. Picture taken. I sat aghast for a few second, not believing that had seriously happened. Did they just take my picture without any warning? After this whole fiasco, was I going to have a ID that made me look like a dazed and confused idiot?!
I fumed at the man. I wanted so badly to give him a piece of my mind, did I not truly believe that my license would be suspended for such verbal abuse. And I was NOT going through that mess again.
They called my name, and I hesitantly flipped over my warm, new license to see Me. It was actually not bad - I have a pleasant, friendly look on my face. How that happened, I'm not sure - I was feeling neither pleasant nor friendly at the moment.
After my half mile walk and 1.5 hour ride, I was home. I laced up my running shoes and ran off the remainder of the afternoon and the ensuing frustration. What an adventure! (Is adventure the right word?)
The next week I was called for jury duty in Miami - how ironic!
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