a day in the life

i had to go renew my driver's license this morning. what a joy. the dmv (as we call it in california, or dps--in texas), is a great leveler of all humanity. sitting in those uncomfortably small hard plastic chairs, crammed together like chickens in a cage going to slaughter. one has a hard time not noticing who they are around.

i walked in and went to the information desk, asked for a number. the lady said,

they are over there.

i began walking away, and the lady sitting in the front row of uncomfortable plastic chairs said,

no, they are behind the counter.

praise God she was listening. i went back, and asked again, and was given a number (go figure).

i sat next to the lady, who was dressed in mournful (or slimming) black, and she had her hands and legs folded, trying to keep herself within the slight bounds of the chair space she was filling.

i sat beside her, our hips nearly touching, and said,

thank you so much.

i looked around at a sign with digital numbers which made absolutely no sense to me (i don't know who designed that sign but it was pure gibberish. it may as well have been in klingon). i asked the kind lady beside me,

what number are they on?

she glanced up at the board and said,

35.

i saw a 12, 14, and 5. i never saw 35.

i said,

how did you get that? add up all the numbers?

she laughed. she said,

no, i just know what number they are on.

what number are you?

i asked.

54.

i had 66 in my hand.

how long have you been waiting?

about ten minutes,

she said.

that's not so bad.

i began filling out the form, talking to myself out loud. which i do regularly.

the kind lady beside me was a waitress. she was supposed to start work at on the border today, but since her license expired in september, she has to start tomorrow. she smokes, i could smell the nicotine on her breath (i probably had coffee breath). but i did like her purse. it was faux leopard and that is just my kind of thing.

i was reading a book on poetry, and asked her if she reads much?

she said,

some.

fiction?

i asked.

yes,

she said.

the guy sitting uncomfortably close to me on my left was a young african american with a slight beard. heavy gold chainage, and a great sense of humor. i just had to listen to him. he was talking to the rotund african american woman he was with, who was two seats over from me. she had a close cropped hair style, and sounded pleasant.

so my friend leaves, and a tall, dark african man sits beside me. he had on square toed dress shoes. black. and he crossed his legs tightly, not taking up manly amounts of space. he sat far back in his seat. and i sat, enshourded by downward spirals of hair, transcribing passages of levertov in my journal.

his friend sat beside me to my left (as the young african guy had number 55). they tried to talk to each other, and i had to sit back so they could.

they spoke in a foreign language, and i had to (HAD TO) ASK,

what language are you speaking?

i knew it was some african dialect, it didn't take a linguist to figure that out.

nigerian.

(i couldn't make out exactly the ending of that word)

do you know it?

i know nigeria.

yes.

he had very dark sunglasses on, i couldn't see his eyes. but he was looking right into mine.

what is your name,

he said.

suzanne, what is your name?

samson.

ooh, strong name.

i said.

samson, wanted to do more than chat, and suggested we swap phone numbers.

"so we could get to know each other"

he said.

my husband won't like that.

i said.

he exited stage right promptly thereafter.

i have to stop writing now as i might get kicked off the library. i have yet to tell you about the young hispanic with the spike in his lip. but i'll try later today or tomorrow if i can get online.

peace!