The heavy door to the DMV waiting area was swung open with exertion, welcoming a symphony of sounds as a copper haired young woman stepped through to the chaos that was considered a normal weekday for the establishment. Blue eyes frantically wandered in search for where she was supposed to go, but before she could the redhead was shoved forward by another entering through the double doors. A push forward and the redhead was already on edge. “Watch yourself,” the young woman quipped to the other, an elderly woman with little care for her wrongdoings whose only reaction was a dismissive hand wave. Rings adored each aged finger on the elderly woman as red painted nails grabbed a ticket from the machine. Barbara might have continued on had it not been for the strange entertain that was provided from the woman’s flamboyant attire. Sleek black dress, gray hair curled to perfection and gaudy jewelry…she looked like the type who would have been a background dancer on Broadway once and never let anyone forget it.
After the young woman took her ticket with the number 215 stamped across it, she made her way over to the long row of uncomfortable plastic blue seats, most of which were already occupied by people. A heavy sigh escaped past Barbara’s lips as she ventured over towards one of the chairs in the back row. It was the only seat she could spot immediately that wasn’t near crying children, overly chatty couples, the teenager nervously tapping his foot on the ground or the elderly woman that Barbara assumably left a less than adequate first impression on.
The Number 55 flashed across the screen above desk number three where a woman sat with her glasses pushed up on the bridge of her nose and indifferent, no agitated expression played on her features, as if helping people wasn’t in her job description. “Shit,” she mumbled under her breath when she finally took a seat adjacent to a man who didn’t seem like the type to strike up a conversation just for the pleasantries.
To her left sat another man, this one seemed to want nothing but idle chatter. What are you doing here? Where are you from? Are you nervous to take your test? Did you come here all alone? Question after question Barbara could feel herself becoming agitated, more so than she already was at the man’s inquiries. She gave brief, short answers that couldn’t amount to a conversation, yet he took them as such until the number 60 was called…his number. It was sweet relief when the man with a thick accent that Barbara couldn’t place had said, “see you later,” to which she had forced a smile in return. No, she would not be seeing anyone later, especially him.
Time passed slowly. Every glance up to the clock on the wall seemed to slow time, minute after minute until she could no longer stand to look at the hand that counted the seconds, minutes and hours. 74…75…76…number after number was called, but they were still too far from her own to cause the young woman any satisfaction. Who would have guessed that spending for years in a different country was a death sentence to wait in the DMV line just so she could renew her license. Barbara’s behavior seemed to reflect her irritability as she couldn’t seem to sit still. Shifting her body weight from side to side, the young woman eventually allowed to arm to lean on the rest nearest to the man, the one who had kept silent.
He was mysterious in appearance, to say the least. Barbara would have even described him as brooding as her light eyes glanced over to the man. He kept to himself, she couldn’t complain about that. Maybe it was that very reason that she hadn’t brought the dropped folded paper to his attention. She didn’t want to impose on him, which wasn’t saying much considering the paper was in her hands within seconds, allowing her curiosity to get the better of her. Had written words in black ink adored the stark white paper. Word after word her eyes scanned the paper, taking in the writing. It was dark, mysterious and funny enough emulated the man she sat beside..but it was also brilliant. The writing was captivating, to say the least, and if she hadn’t made eye contact with the man when she glanced up from the sheet of paper she might have considered keeping it.
‘Reckless’ was one word to describe how he was being right now. ‘Foolish’ was another. Had he known this previously assumed simple task would take more than an hour he would have saved it for another day in which he didn’t have anything else planned. A wheezing sort of distress sounded in his chest, the very kind he was certain was going to kill him one day, the one he blamed on the years of smoking cigarettes, but also due to the various other substances his brain taken a blow from. Ha. Blow just happened to be one of them.
Bright blue eyes scanned the whole of the room, or as far as they could. Bodies were crowded into the space like slabs of meat in a meat packing factory, and he couldn’t imagine how bad of a heart attack the fire marshal would have if he saw that the registered capacity was surpassed. The poet’s tongue slid under his upper lip and rested on his right canine, head titled downward in slight. There was something terribly dull about this place, something he had not quite experienced at the DMV in Seattle some years ago. Perhaps, he thought, it was because this was a smaller establishment, one that didn’t have nearly as much help.
And it also doesn’t have nearly as many residents.
He fidgeted in the stiff seat he was almost ready to give up; give up and get outta dodge. Come back another day. For Christ’s sake. Shifting forward, the foreigner cleared his throat, eyes jumping between the faces of those passing by, those who looked nearly as miserable as he if not more so. Through his fractured attention he had not noticed the scrap of paper that had fell from his lap, the very one he had been scribbling lines of a poem on towards the beginning of his visit. The now capped pen jutted out of the front pocket of his jeans.
It wasn’t until the moving wisp of red hair out of the corner of his eye that the man realized the very paper had left his person. Turning his gaze to the young woman beside him, hands still in his pockets, the poet couldn’t help but furrow his brows.
She was engrossed in leaflet--No, no, no, his poem. His torn sheet of misshapen words and verses. A flush of minor embarrassment burned in his chest, although it was dispersed almost immediately, for this was not the first time he had encountered such an instance. Producing a hand, he held it towards the woman, palm side facing up.
“Sorry, that’s mine,” he mumbled, his foot moving in slight, knocking the black motorcycle helmet between his worn boots on its side.
romaincrisis
