The first red flag: having to schedule her appointment in Flemington instead of Baker’s Basin, Lucy’s DMV destination for 30 years. She detested both change and the Route 202/31 corridor. The Flemington DMV was tucked away amidst an annoying row of car dealerships, suitcase outlets, decrepit driving ranges, diners, and garden centers.
The second red flag: the series of impossible deadlines. Her North Carolina car registration expired April 30, and she moved on June 1, saddling her with the conundrum of having to establish residency before actually being an official resident.
And the last red flag: very long equally red fingernails. (More details to come.)
Cars in general were a thorn in Lucy’s side. One of the few pluses of her trial year of living in Manhattan was that she rarely had to drive, except for the twice-weekly (singularly New York) ritual of alternate side of the street parking. While “free” parking saved her and thousands of other New Yorkers from expensive garage gouging, this schlep gave new meaning to “you get what you pay for.”
Every Monday or Tuesday and Thursday or Friday, at 9 or 11 am depending on where she found a spot, Lucy would trudge to her car and sit and wait for the street cleaner — and for a police officer to check if there was a driver present. She filled these hours with Zoom, texts, emails, LinkedIn, her Calm app and Wordle. The sudden appearance of the street cleaner resulted in a musical chairs parallel parking game (aka the SUV Waltz), which left her nauseous with the threat of someone nabbing her space.
Lucy ultimately concluded that New York was No Country for Old Women. Or as she shared with one recruiter for a Jersey-based job a few months later, “I am too old for this s…t.” (She didn’t get that job.)
She soon learned that she was also too old for the Six Points of ID. Just reading the DMV website’s long list of requirements made her dizzy.
Upon arrival at the DMV, Lucy learned that from the irate (her Wordle opener) DMV Lady at the Proof of ID window that her passport (garnering an impressive 4 points) was not quite the proof jackpot she thought it was. In COVID times, she no longer carried a wallet (or wore a watch or washed her hair or wore anything but black leggings). DMV Lady — whose nameplate read BLANCHE — was dumbfounded that she didn’t have a debit card.
Lucy had proffered local utility bills, checks with her new address, her NJ EZ Pass statement, and her old NJ license but had stupidly left behind her debit and Social Security cards.
“Give me your phone,” Blanche ordered, tapping her very long red fingernails on the counter, then impatiently grabbing the phone where she proceeded to click her nails all over Lucy’s iPhone 6.
“What are you doing?” Lucy asked, aghast.
“Where’s your bank app?” Blanche snapped. “We’ll find your latest statement there.”
“My phone’s too old. I can’t download any apps,” Lucy whined.
Blanche rolled her eyes and scribbled something on the appointment sheet and shoved it back under the Plexiglas barrier. “If you come back in the next two weeks you won’t need an appointment,” she said, ready to have Lucy out of her big Jersey hair.
Lucy gave up, leaving defeated and very pissed off, with only two weeks to return, via subway, train and Uber. She was done with the bridge and tunnel and turnpike — but at least in New Jersey she no longer had to pump her own gas.
Driving back south, John Gorka’s ode to his Garden State rang in her head:
I’m from New Jersey. I don’t expect too much. If the world ended today, I would adjust.
She then started to worry: what if her debit card wasn’t enough proof? What if she couldn’t get her bank statement updated with the right address?
On the day of reckoning, she rose early, did a triple-check of her 6-points documents, and headed back to Penn Station.
NJ Transit was miraculously on time, and she soon rescued her Subaru from pollen and bird poop, breezing through the myriad traffic lights of Route 31/202 and rolling into the DMV with time to spare. She felt confident, a light in her step. She breathed in deeply and marched in, head high, grinning at the guard as she handed over her appointment sheet of shame — evidence of her unsuccessful first try. The guard wished her good luck.
Hopefully Lucy wouldn’t need luck. This time she had a plan: she would kill everyone with kindness.
The gauntlet loomed. Once again there was the Proof of 6 points of ID to surmount. (Governor McGreevey’s major achievement was fixing the DMV, so now there weren’t interminable lines, just many mini-lines, like a Fast Pass at Disney, but with no hawking of Character tchotchkes or ads for movies.)
The Proof line went smoothly this go-round. She beamed at the woman at the window and got a return smile, a stamp of approval and an assigned number for “processing.”
Lucy sat down to organize her documents. Suddenly her number was called. This was too good to be true! She headed toward Window 11 — a prime number, a good omen?
“Hello! How are you today?” Lucy greeted Window 11 Woman, who looked like she’d been through the ringer — grayish brown hair disheveled, glasses teetering on the tip of her nose, eyebrows furrowed.
“It’s been one of those days,” Window-11 Woman replied. “What are we doing today?” she asked, glaring at Lucy’s ominous stack of forms.
“I’m transferring my license, title, registration — second time’s a charm!” Lucy replied, radiating her power of positive thinking. The woman reached to collect the forms and began to type furiously. Lucy wondered why this process wasn’t somehow automated but kept those thoughts to herself.
Window-11-Woman handed back the forms and sent her to the final destination, Window 17 — not Lucy’s favorite prime number. Approaching No. 17, Lucy recognized DMV Lady and visibly recoiled. DMV Lady spotted her and rolled her heavily mascaraed eyes.
“Here we go again,” DMV Lady snarled, grabbing the remaining pile of forms from under the Plexiglas and clacking her now even longer and redder nails on her keyboard.
ClicketyClack. Don’t talk back, Lucy steeled herself.
After what seemed like eons, DMV Lady slid completed forms for her title, registration and driver’s license under the Plexiglas window. “Is this information correct?” she asked? Lucy scanned it quickly and gulped. “Yes!” she replied.
“Look at the camera,” DMV Lady ordered. Her license photo now taken, a minute later, DMV Lady handed back her forms. She was now an official New Jersey driver and car owner.
Lucy almost skipped towards the exit. Suddenly she was tapped on her shoulder and turned to see a stooped young man in a baseball cap who looked a bit lost and overwhelmed.
“You speak English?” he asked?
“Yes, why?” she asked.
“I need translator,” he replied.
Lucy set her collection of documentation down on the closest chair and pulled out her phone to demonstrate Google Translator.
There was a sudden flurry of activity behind her. She turned to see that all her stuff was gone. And then the man was nowhere to be found.
Lucy plopped down hard on the chair and tried to breathe. This couldn’t be happening.
“Are you OK?” the front desk guard asked.
Lucy gazed in the distance, collecting herself.
“How do you replace a stolen driver’s license, title and registration?” she asked.
The guard smiled. “That’s easy. As long as you are in the system, you can do all that online.”
Wendell Wood Collins lives in Pennington and works in Development & Alumni Engagement for The College of New Jersey. She has been a member of the Room at the Table writing group and has participated in various other writer groups and workshops.
