Rocky and The DMV

Originally published August 2004

The DMV. An old joke, but still strangely relevant after all these years. So here we go. Does anyone else feel like Rocky when they actually get something accomplished at the DMV? You pull into the parking lot and the unmistakable opening bars of the Rocky theme start running through your head, “dah-dah d-d-dah d-d-dah, d-d-dah…” You know you’re the underdog, so you do a little shadow boxing to get psyched up before you reach the front door. Then you take a few deep breaths and enter the ring. Next thing you know, you’re on the ropes staring down a standing 8-count. How the hell did that happen? You’re Rocky. You know you’ve got what it takes to go the distance: a valid passport, birth certificate, current driver’s license and proof of residency. Oh right, this is Rocky I.

In my first attempt at securing a South Carolina driver’s license I had all of the aforementioned articles, but as it turns out, was missing the crucial stuff: a note from my mother, hair samples from my grandparents, an affidavit swearing to give up my first born son, the Holy Grail and the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the West. And my social security card. My *expletive redacted* social security card. Haven’t seen the damn thing since it was issued, when I was, like, 12.

Furious, I left without incident. Just as in Rocky I, the ordeal ended in a draw after what felt like 15 hard-fought rounds. Lucky for me there was a Rocky II.

But not quite yet. Oh no. First there was a trip to the Social Security Administration. And might I say, what a delightful place! In addition to my card application, I got religion from the not-so-shy fellow sitting next to me and some used gum on my hand when I tried to slide my chair away from the not-so-shy fellow sitting next to me. But I digress.

Now we’re at my favorite part of the story: the logic-takes-a-holiday part. To get a new driver’s license (A) I needed my social security card (B). To get a new social security card (B) I needed my current driver’s license (C). Doesn’t it, therefore, stand to reason that my current driver’s license would be sufficient evidence to receive a new driver’s license (If A=B and B=C, then A=C)? Not in the ass-backwards world of the DMV. (And my sincere apologies for the math reference both to you, the reader, because I pride myself on this column having no educational value whatsoever; and to my algebra teacher, Mrs. Worrell, for ever doubting that I would use postulates of equality in the real world. But I digress, again.)

My new card arrived two weeks later. So back to the DMV I went: Rocky II. I was immediately assault—I mean—greeted by a woman who either a) hates her job and was taking it out on me or b) had something lodged so thoroughly up her posterior that existing medical technology cannot remedy the situation. She came out swinging, and in a rapid-fire attack demanded to see each piece of evidence in my possession. I fumbled through my papers, producing the appropriate ones on cue. After reviewing all the documentation, she looked me up and down and with noticeable disgust waved me on. I could taste victory. And with that round safely under my belt, I entered the building.

But the DMV wasn’t going down without a fight. Between the nauseating stench of feet, tacos, what I think rotting cabbage would smell like and factoring in the slug-like pace of the entire operation, I was certain they were going for the TKO—hoping I would get weary and tire of waiting. But I had trained for this. I had the eye of the tiger. I also had a book and nose plugs.

Three lifetimes later, my number was called. And almost as though I heard the opening bell of the final round ring, I leapt from my chair ready to do battle—sizing up my opponent one last time. “Birth certificate?” BAM. “Social security card?” BAM. “Driver’s license?” BAM. “Proof of residency?” BAM. And then I went for the knockout: “I have my passport too, if you’d like to see it.” Take that, you *expletive redacted*.

On my way to the camera, like Rocky climbing those Philadelphia stairs, I was tempted to raise my arms and sing his theme for all to hear. I had won. But, alas, the DMV had the last laugh. When it was time to snap the picture she asked, “Are you ready?” I said “Wha—” and poof, the flash went off.