The Department of Lost Time

 Carolyn J. Rose

First, let me say that the staff members I encountered at the 136th Street Department of Licensing Office in Vancouver were upbeat, helpful, and patient. They were also extremely efficient.

But now for the rant:

When I got the notice that my driver's license would expire in a month, Ihopped on the site to make an appointment. Because I'm over 70, I couldn't renew online. Apparently they want to make sure I'm ambulatory and have a pulse. And I think that's a great idea because I've had several close calls with drivers who . . .

But anyway, I found no appointment openings for weeks in my area, only available slots at offices an hour or more away. Given the price of gas thanks to that war with Iran, I quickly axed the idea of a hundred-mile round trip.

My husband—also helpful and patient up to a point if that point is within, say, a ten-minute range—called the state headquarters and was told that there were no openings in Vancouver before my license expired. When he asked what we were supposed to do, he was told we should show up at 8:30 when the office opened and get in line and wait and take our chances.

And so we pulled up at 8:40 and found the room dark. Seems that on Thursday mornings the drivers' licensing staff has a meeting that runs until 10. We groused a bit at the poor guy at the car registration desk who gave us the “don't shoot the messenger” talk, but then we slunk away.

After procuring a snack from a nearby grocery store, putting in fifteen minutes waiting in the parking lot and watching a dozen people forming a line, I went in to use the restroom. Posted on the door of the women's toilet was a sign stating it was closed and staff would direct us to the alternate location.

​Queried about that, the don't-shoot-the-messenger guy informed me there was no alternate location and a plumber would probably arrive later in the day. I groused again, this time louder and longer.

Since Mike's license won't expire until November, I suggested we go home and I'd return later. So we drove home, I emptied my bladder, and drove back. I arrived at 10:20 and was informed that I couldn't simply take a number and wait, but had to make an appointment. Fortunately, there was one available. At 12:45.

This is where I learned the secret that's apparently guarded so carefully by the folks answering questions at the state headquarters. A few minutes before the office opens—which seems to be 9 instead of 8:30—they open a same-day appointment schedule and you can scramble to get a slot.

Irritated as I was by the bureaucracy, I kept most of my cool and thanked the staff member for finding me a spot. Then, because the office is a 25-minute drive from home and gas, and I mentioned previously, is expensive, I went shopping. Not for clothes, but for chocolate and chips and cheesy snacks.

After a day at the Department of Lost Time, I'm two pounds heavier. But I now have a license good for 8 years. By that time, I hope to have enough brain cells still functioning to keep me from getting on the freeway. Or getting behind the wheel at all.