Motherless
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To say the DMV is a hellish place would be a cliché and a damn fact.
I almost pity the things that work within its confinement. Almost, but they aren’t quite people, so I can't pity the Aren’t Quites. And it’s always the same aren’t quite people working there. Every, let’s say 6 months, a year, you go, only because you have to, and it’s the same damn excuse of a man, with his bland dress and lazy speech, tell you to go to this window or that one. Then it’s the same damn excuse of a woman, who was pregnant when you saw her last year, and she seems to be at the same stage, so this must be number two, asking for the papers and the I.D.’s and what not. It turns out your tax record is two months too old to use and she sits there asking for something newer as if you might not exist otherwise. There’s gotta be a guy behind me coughing into thin air. There’s always someone, somewhere coughing polluting my oxygen. People come in when they’re sick and they always come in when something’s wrong. Some bad mother always brings her pissy kid and scolds him for living. Always some impatient guy standing there, huffing and puffing, like the audible exhale will speed the whole process up. I wonder if the Aren’t Quite’s in the windows can actually see through the glass. I wonder if they don’ simply see past us, standing around, to the sun glinting off windshields and the trees waving at them. |
