The usual Department of Motor Vehicles that I do business at doesn't deal, anymore, with registration questions. So, my apointment for the transfer of the truck title takes me to the Formosa branch.
Now, Formosa is the street where the infamous Formosa Cafe still perches on the corner. It straddles Formosa and Santa Monica, where I once used to walk nights in the company of teen- aged hustlers and drug dealers. (That was my first foray into being a professional social worker/street counselor. I cannot even remember how many humid August nights, thirty years ago, were passed on that same block...now, my circling karma has me returning.) This time, not in a '59 VW Bug, but a '98 4x4 Nissan pickup. Instead of heading off for work, and leaving four room-mates, I'm selling my truck, heading back, to Boston...
The weird thing about the DMV office on Formosa is that it has only a long, narrow parking lot, where cars coming in and out must be regulated, single file, from the actual street. This halts traffic up and down Formosa--which the locals avoid--but for the rest of us, we must sit, patiently, until "flagged" inside. I enter the street the wrong way, pull a u-turn and take my place in the line. Finally, sweating the clock to appointment (if you are late, you have to re-schedule and begin on another day--no exceptions), I'm at the head of the line. An ancient, withered Black man, with silver and gold teeth, tells me to stop. I must wait for at least two more cars, at the other end of the skinny lot, to leave. I turn off the motor. He waves to folks going into the building. People tap him on the shoulder or give him a light hug as they pass. Everyone is greeted equally. I ask him how he keeps so "up"all day in the unrelenting sun and anxiety of the place. He grins, looking over his dark glasses, then asks:"Do you read your Bible ?"
I smile, sheepishly. "Actually, I do," I answer, knowing it's not the same kind of "reading" he probably does.
"Well, in Proverbs, it says, why be glum? Why be sad? Don't nothing good come out of being down. You gotta stay up. Stay happy. That's the only way good is gonna find you."
Just then, there's a break in the line. He moves me forward, tells me to simply turn the truck around and squeeze into this spot near the fence. I am worried. But before I even get the truck turned, a guy in a small foreign number cuts out of the line and zooms in, by the gate. Now, I have to make another awkward 360, amid pedestrians, new drivers pulling out, and the single file line-up. The elder walks over to my window. "Sorry--I didn't think he was gonna do that--just drive straight across the lot--the guy down there will help you park, in the alley--I just called him," he points to his radio set attached to the uniform. Then he gives me a huge, silver and gold, gap-toothed smile.
I feel the tears begin at the back of my throat. I carefully maneuver; nobody yells at me to hurry up. Nobody is even laughing at my wrestling with the manual steering on the big truck. I get down to the alley and this nineteen year old, shaved head, kid waves me in. It is even narrower, with cars parked along one side. I tell him I don't think I can get the truck between the two Toyota's he has pointed out. I expect a curse, or a disgusted grunt. Instead, he walks beside the truck, all the way down, and views the space. (It's going to be tight--we both know.)
I ask him if he wants to park it? He shakes his head, "I can't drive stick--I'm just learning," he smiles. He can see the truck's big and I'm short. "I'll walk you in," he smiles, again.
Between the two of us, and a constant stop and go while other cars inch their ways from the alley, we get the truck into the space. (I want to kiss the kid, but don't have time if I'm to make it to the appointment.) I run down the street, re-enter the lot, try one door, the another--both locked! A guy getting out of an "instructor"s car hollars and points to the side entrance. (I'm beginning to feel like a lab rat...sure someone is filming this...) Inside, it is loud as a bus station, complete with PA announcements and throngs of every age, color and size, all as confused as I am. I clutch my appointment paper, and the manilla envelope with all my other papers, sure that I'll have as much rigamarole to go through as I did over getting a permanent parking permit for the neighborhood.
A woman only a bit older than me, sitting at a fold-down table, sees me desperately looking for which line to enter. She motions for me to come over. I start to explain. She stops me. She looks at the bulging envelope. "Sweetie, show me watcha got..." she says.
I open the envelope and pull out everything from registration, insurance cards, smog checks, Lojack forms, bill of sale, etc. She doesn't blink an eye. She pulls out two pieces of paper, tells me what to do and says I don't even need to make the appointment--just fill them out and mail them in! She, too, is smiling calmly. She touches the back of my hand and winks.
My legs are trembling as I exit the building. So much adrenalin has pumped through my system, I feel light-headed. I am back at the truck in less than five minutes. I stop, at the entrance to the alley. I ask the kid for his name and supervisor. I tell him, with a big lump in my throat, how refreshing to have someone at the DMV show patience, a sense of compassion and humor--and not to make an idiot like me feel even more stupid than she already does as she tries to jump through all the hoops. He is polite, sweet, treating me like his auntie, I'm sure. I give a wave as I pull out of the alley and head, the right way, down Formosa.
Today, Gus came by with the check for the truck. I took him out to where I'd parked her. He noticed I'd gotten her washed. "I told you, you didn't have to do that!"
He kissed the keys I handed over--plus the title. I showed him the alarm system and the tools that came with the truck. "You know, I've always liked this truck, since you first came to the building. I'll take good care of her," Gus patted me on the back. He smiled.
I walked away, thanking the Great Spirit for all these people--folks who don't have to really be polite; who take abuse at every turn; whose job is to help usher the rest of us stressed, desperate idiots, through a system that has us all by the back of the neck--and who do it, with grace.
Giving up the best vehicle I've ever owned, in a city where you are often judged by what you drive, is more emotional than I ever knew it would be. I called that kid's Supervisor.
"Hey, I'm going fishing in Alaska, next week--I'll bring you back some salmon!" Gus called, as I walked back up the stairs.
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