His name was Tyrone. I know his name because his mother
shouted it at him at least thirty times while the rest of us at the DMV looked
on. I suppose she didn’t shout his name as much as she whimpered it, pleading
with her three year old boy to please behave, please be good, please stop
screaming, and on and on... and on.
As his mom conducted her business at the counter, Tyrone
played with his sister who looked to be about five years old. Tyrone yanked, with all his might, on
a pen attached by a chain to the counter, while his sister looked into the
vision testing machine. When Tyrone decided it was his turn to look into the machine he
started screaming, “SEE! SEE! SEE!” Mom tilted the machine down, away from her
daughter, and told her to lift up her little brother so he could play with it. Once
Tyrone realized the machine was not a View-Master he got mad, and with his
little fists clenched at his sides, he let out a scream to rival all screams in
the history of screaming. The man in the chair next to me muttered something
under his breath, got up, and moved as far away from the family as he could
get. Other people subtly tried to plug their ears. I think a window may have
shattered, I know my ear drums did.
Tyrone’s mom said, “Please be good and stop screaming. If
you’re good I’ll give you a snack when we get to the car. I’ll even take you to
McDonalds for an ice cream.” Tyrone replied by screaming, “NO! NO! NO!” He ran
to the testing area plopping himself in front of a computer that sat right below a sign requesting patrons be quiet because testing was in progress.
He banged on the keyboard and yelled until a woman came out of her office, walked over to Tyrone, and
said to him with a firm but gentle voice, “computer time is over,” and made him
stop. Which he did. Until Mom came over. Then he started screaming, “NO! NO!
NO! NOOOOOO!” Mom took him by the hand and said, “I'm gonna buy you a treat, okay?” He screamed
all the way to the vending machine.
Tyrone got to pick the treat while his perfectly behaved sister stood quietly in the background. As the candy dropped from
its place, Tyrone screamed, “MINE! MINE! MINE!” and Mom gave him the first
serving. When Tyrone’s name was finally
called, the struggle to take his picture ensued. Tyrone tried to climb the blue
curtain that was suspended from the ceiling. After two employees asked him to
stop, and two more told Mom that he can’t hang on the curtain, they were able
to take his picture. But not before he hit Mom in the face and let out a
blood-curdling scream.
“Ah, that little shit. He needs a good spanking is what he needs,” said the man sitting behind me. I heard a lot of chuckles from like-minded people. When Tyrone left with Mom and sister trailing behind him, my attention shifted to another family.
“Ah, that little shit. He needs a good spanking is what he needs,” said the man sitting behind me. I heard a lot of chuckles from like-minded people. When Tyrone left with Mom and sister trailing behind him, my attention shifted to another family.
Her name was Mildred and she was 99 years old. (I know this
because as three employees helped her sign her name on an electronic
signature pad, one of them announced, “She’ll be 100 in January.”)
Mildred looked ancient as she sat in her wheel chair. She
wore brown polyester slacks pulled up farther than looked
comfortable, a white turtle neck sweater, and hot pink socks with colorful flowers
printed on them. And black Crocs. She was pushed to the counter by her elderly daughter.
Mildred’s daughter propped her up against the counter and the employee asked, “What’s your name?”
“What?” Mildred replied.
“What’s your name?”
“What?” She asked again.
“HE’S ASKING WHAT YOUR NAME IS!” Mildred's daughter yelled in her
ear.
This continued for a while. And then the next question came.
“How long have you lived in Washington?”
“What?”
“How long have you lived in Washington?”
“What?”
“HE WANTS TO KNOW HOW LONG YOU’VE LIVED IN WASHINGTON!”
“I don’t know,” Mildred answered, as if he’d just asked her the
circumference of Jupiter.
“I hope she’s not getting her license renewed,” I whispered
in my daughter's ear, instantly feeling guilty for being judgmental, yet
secretly proud of my comedic timing.
There were ten people (my daughter among them) waiting to be photographed, but Mildred was ushered to the front of the line. Her daughter pushed
the wheelchair right up to the blue curtain and yelled, “YOU’RE GETTING YOUR
PICTURE TAKEN, YOU NEED SOME COLOR IN YOUR CHEEKS. PINCH YOUR CHEEKS LIKE
THIS!” That message took a long time to convey, as you can imagine. Mildred
began pinching her cheeks and I watched, worried that her thin skin might tear.
It took a while to get the picture taken because Mildred had
trouble keeping her eyes open. But they finally managed to get an acceptable photo and Mildred was wheeled out
of the DMV. As the doors closed behind them I heard her ask in a bewildered
tone, “What are we doing?”
My daughter's name was called next and as I watched her get her
driver’s permit I thought about Tyrone and Mildred. I imagined Mildred, seventy
five years ago, as a young mother with Tyrone as her son:
The two of them stand in line at the Horse and Carriage Licensing
Department, Tyrone screams and misbehaves. Mildred lovingly and patiently gives
him a warning, Tyrone refuses to listen. There is not a second warning. She
doesn’t offer him a Sarsparilla or a bit of horehound if he behaves, Mildred simply
scoops him up, lays him across her lap, and spanks his butt. He cries. She hugs
Tyrone and tells him she loves him, but that kind of behavior won’t be
tolerated. She holds him until he stops crying, then plops in him a chair with
a slate and a piece of chalk to keep him busy. The men remove their stovepipe
hats and the women fan themselves as they all rise and give Mildred a standing
ovation. She nods shyly and dabs her eyes with her kerchief, patting Tyrone on
the knee….
