Quality Time at the DMV

This past week was not a good one. I've been grouchy, depressed, irritable and at times, just plain mean. In other words, I came very close to becoming one of those cranky old men who wears a permanent frown and kicks bunnies for fun. (Note to PETA: I have not now nor have I ever kicked a bunny. Please do not picket my house.)

When I’m in a bad mood like this, there are quite a few things that I don’t want to do. I don't want to try and pretend that everything is fine. I don't want to sing a round of Kumbaya with the local church group. I would prefer not to be told by anyone that if life hands me lemons, I should make lemonade. I do not want someone taking their fingers and prying the corners of my lips up while urging me to smile. And I do not, absolutely do not, want to have to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Which is exactly where I found myself on Thursday.

I have been going to the DMV since I was 16 years old, which means I have 31 years of experience in standing in DMV lines that do not, not ever, move. In all that time nothing has changed. On my arrival, I was directed to first wait in line one. From there, I was directed to wait in line two. Then (I'm sure you've guessed this) the person at line two sent me to wait in line three.

Did line three finally lead to the helpful person behind the counter, you ask? That certainly would have seemed logical. After all, by the time I worked my way up to the front of line three, I had already been waiting around for two hours. But there is no room for logic here. This is the DMV where finding someone to actually help you is akin to the search for bin Laden. Thus, line three only leads me to now stand in line four. It was all very Waiting for Godot.

Quite a few people walked out, muttering that they didn’t have the time to continue this endless game of shuffling from place to place. Dozens grumbled "This is ridiculous" as they waited and then waited some more. You would think that I could have easily been one of the complainers, given my bad mood. But no. I had one thing no one else at the DMV had that day. I had Pedro.

Pedro was directly behind me in line. Actually, more to the point, he was directly behind me in every line. Wherever I went, so went Pedro, a 78-year old man who suddenly found himself with nothing to do but wait in line and talk to the guy ahead of him: me. Over the course of our 3 hours in line together (yes, I said 3 hours) Pedro told me all about his life. He grew up in the Philippines. Now widowed and retired. Four grown children. For thirty years, he had been employed by a company that caused him to spend 6 months at a time away from his family. I learned what each of his kids did for a living, the color of every room in his house and the total mileage on his 2005 Honda (only 13,000 because it spends half the year tucked in the garage while he spends the winter months back in Manila.)

As Pedro talked (and talked), it was impossible to not let go of my crankiness. Here was a man describing a perfectly ordinary life with anything-but-ordinary enthusiasm. Pedro was so friendly and upbeat that you couldn't help but be swept up in his description of, well, everything. He was as engaging while describing how the world was created (it involved God throwing a lot of lamps, apparently) as he was in talking about what he was going to have for lunch (a boiled egg). He never stopped smiling. At one point, he turned to the woman seated on his other side, pointed to me and told her "This is my friend." You can't stay cranky when Pedro calls you his friend.

It was a little sad to say goodbye to Pedro when were finally done and heading back to the parking lot. I hope he enjoyed our chat. I know I did. Pedro gave me something on Thursday that I hadn't been able to get for myself all the previous week. The cranky guy crawled back into whatever dark corner he had come from and I was feeling like me again. All because of Pedro. Who knew you could find quality time at the DMV?