06.11.03
On friday, as I had the day off, I decided to get a driver's license, register/title my car, and get Illinois license plates.
I had previously been warned that the facility I was going to visit was notorious for huge delays, but it was the easiest one to access that had all of these services available.
First thing, I filled out tax exemption paperwork for my car, and get it signed off by financial people. Then I had to surrender my Iowa title and fill out more paperwork, in exchange for which I received a set of license plates, some paperwork, and the promise of future registration and title papers being mailed to my residence. I then paid the lady at the cashier's window a check for $143.
On my way to the driver's license part of the facility, I was stopped and informed that I needed to have an annual permit to own a car in Chicago, and that in exchange for $75, I could have a sticker to put in the lower right corner of my windshield. So I wrote out a check for $75, filled out a paper, and got a sticker.
Then I walked outside, around the building, and into some circle of hell that I can't even adequately describe, except to say that the end result of the torture is a driver's license. First, I had to show the majordomo at the front desk all of the paperwork and documentation I had brought with me to get a license, and he gave me a ticket that said "E378," telling me to have a seat in the lobby and wait for my number to be called.
I noted that on the overhead display of numbers currently being assisted, all of them seemed to be A-something-something-something. I settled in for a long wait, digging in to my bag for the book I had been told that I should bring to kill time. Just as I pulled it out of the bag, I heard a voice announce, "Now serving number E378, number E378."
Apparently they run on some sort of crazy lottery system, of which I now heartily endorse the usage.
I gave my Iowa driver's license, my birth certificate, a bill with my current address, and my social security card to the sourest-looking tiny old badly-dyed red-haired woman on the entire planet, with the most poorly drawn-in auburn eyebrows I have ever seen.
As she asked me a bunch of questions, and furiously typed in my information, I couldn't stop staring at her forehead, so I switched my gaze to the sign on the wall behind her back. And I couldn't even tell you what it said because the second I made visual contact, some guy behind the counter walked directly into my line of site, and then proceeded to furiously scratch and then rearrange his package in the least discrete manner I have ever witnessed.
While I stood there in a state of utter mortification, the lady caught my attention, handed me a whole bunch of papers and my documentation, and told me to go to the cashier window. I walked over to the window, and ponied up a check for $10.
That guy stamped my paperwork, and sent me over to take the written test, which I passed with flying colors.
The lady at the testing counter wrote something on my paperwork, took my old license, and directed me over to another window, where I stood in line for a while, and then forked over the paperwork, where it apparently found a home. I also got to sign a slip of paper with my official signature, and then go wait in line to have a picture taken.
While in that line, I watched the woman take the most ungodly series of pictures of the people in line ahead of me, clearly waiting until the individual in the chair blinked, or yawned, or did something else reflexively, resulting in terrifying, and from what I understand, permanent image. In anticipation of this, I sat frozen in place smiling, waiting until the woman told me to go take a seat and wait for the license.
End result, the picture is okay, but I couldn't possibly look more washed out. I look like Powder with hair. And apparently whenever I renew my license until the end of time or I move out of the state, that will be the picture they tack onto the new license.
Oy.
So now, should I ever get my car back from the body shop, I have plates and stickers to put on it. And with all my fee-paying, tax-paying, and official documentation, I am officially a citizen of Chicago, Cook County, and the state of Illinois.
Woot.
What's in your head?