the buzz of the “now serving number” sign, the hum of the printer giving me my new card. . . the quiet milling of people getting their cards for the first time, renewing their cards for the fourth, or trying to convince the company that they are not too old to have a card. . . as they shuffle away defeated, the room gets noticeably quieter, the only thing missing is the sitcom “ah/oh”. “61!” i get up and walk up to the same teller that turns away the elderly, and say “all i need is to renew my license.” “we can do that here.” 20 minutes later, i’ve got a card with a sub-suitable picture of me, and a letter ‘d’ for donor. . . dmv is the place to pick up girls.

adam.

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