14 January 2009

SF DMV (ii)

I was told to go get my car and bring it closer for "Vehicle Verification." I pulled up behind another woman being verified and started checking my email. I also had my windows down, which allowed me to hear:

"It says Nevada."


"Yeah she's from Nevada."

I kept typing. I wanted it to be clear that I was sitting in my car minding my own business and that they should do the same. But my hints were not obvious, and one of the three started talking even louder, to make sure I heard him.

"I used to stay in Nevada. I was in Vegas for two years. I was over at 95 and Durango. But I had to get out."
I asked why. I did not look at him (as I was now typing a play by play for Kate) I just asked why.
"The money wasn't flowing like it used to."
What he should have said was "I'm a moron." That fool had four properties, all with Adjustable Rate Mortgages. He said he was paying $1200 a month (at some point) for a four bedroom house, and that the mortgage tripled. Even worse, I think he was a construction worker. In Vegas, that once meant living high on the hog and now means poverty forced relocation.

He went on, explaining what he did and did not like about Vegas. He asked me where I used to live. I told him. He then explained the 215 Beltway to me as if I hadn't told him I lived there. He asked me how I liked San Francisco and eventually ran out of things to say. Meanwhile the Vehicle Verification is still going on in front of me and the woman is digging in her trunk. What does this state want from it's drivers?
"My friend from Vegas might have a pen you can borrow."
Never in my life have I ever wanted to say "No you didn't" as much as I did then. The Foreclosure Fool offered a pen of mine to a friend who had missed the whole exchange. The friend was confused, but the FF sent him to my window to ask. I opened my bag and told him I only had a pink pen. He was clearly to macho for that. Plus I'm not even sure the DMV accepts pink ink.

Finally it was time for my vehicle to be verified. I didn't have to go into the trunk, just open the hood. And the guy making the demands did not offer to help. He did though walk me through it. Jesse is in charge of looking under the hood and of dipping sticks and what not. I buy the snacks. So I should not have been surprised when I could not find the bar that props up the hood. I was surprised at how hot the hood had gotten from one drive on a sunny day. Although looking back, I had been idling in case the FF tried to get in and I had to run him down. I paid less attention to the search for the prop bar as my hand started to sizzle. The DMV guy was the first to find it, stealthily planted on the actual hood and not on the car.

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