I Failed Thumbprinting 101

I failed thumb-printing 101 at the Garberville DMV yesterday and as a result, I will not be allowed to operate a motor vehicle in California any longer. I was also unable to properly relay my name and my date of birth, but I do believe that was secondary to failing thumb-printing 101. I mean, a lot of people have problems being able to remember (and write out) their own names and birthdays, right?

The individuals who were employed to help people at the DMV, were sarcastic, rude, insensitive, condescending and simply callous. That an elder would have issues with the computer system in place, seemed the height of entertainment in the almost-empty facility, while simultaneously being a burden of astronomical proportions. 

That is correct; I had the place almost to myself. I mention this because it is not as though I would have been depriving vast numbers of others of the services of the two employees working the counter. I use the term “working the counter” loosely.

I was at the DMV in the first place because my license expires within the next ten days, and though I don’t drive often, I do need to be able to get down to the VA in Ukiah. 

I have a history of struggling with the computers in the DMV, and if that amuses you too, then so be it. Whereas I am happy to provide entertainment, I am not happy that my distress caused no more of a ripple in the surface of this stagnant office, than that created by the need to reheat a cup of coffee in the microwave.

The directions stated, “Place your right thumb in the designated area.”

I did so.

The computer did nothing except blink and then repeat the directions, “Place your right thumb in the designated area.”

After the third [unsuccessful] time, the computer simply shut down. I was forced to face the ignominy of crawling back to the chair in front of the window until one of the two employees deigned to respond to me.

The woman, let’s call her Betty Bored, was simply too busy staring at the screen to notice me. The dude, let’s call him Baldy, seemed more inclined because I was obviously a person of great comic interest. I’m sure I was not the only old, long-haired hippie type to seek a driver’s license that morning, but I was the one most readily available.

I explained my dilemma. When his eye-rolling had run its extensive course, he led me back to the computers, and rebooted the computer-or whatever he did-and then proceeded to show me how to do the thumb-printing business. As complicated as placing my thumb in the designated area apparently could be, I was determined to succeed with Baldy right next to me.

Oops! By golly, even with Baldy perched right there beside me, the computer failed to read my thumbprint. Not once. Not twice. Three times the computer failed to register my thumbprint. Baldy had no explanation, but he did reset the computer again, and we tried once more.

Finally, I experienced the thrill of success and he faded back to his counter.

“Please enter your first name in the designated area.” I did so and followed up with my middle name and then my last name. I have had them for almost 71 years now, so I was positive that I knew how to spell them.

Oops! The computer did nothing but blink and repeat the directions. I stared at screen in disbelief. I had neither misspelled my name nor stuttered. 

After the third time, I slithered back to the counter, and went through the whole thing again, with Baldy sarcastically commenting that is was pretty important to be able to get my name correct. 

When the same thing happened with my date of birth, I was ready to cash in my chips and head for home without the coveted license. But I persevered. I did stay to take the written part of the test, but after the fourth question about the amount of time you would have to serve for 1) drunk driving, 2) Vehicular manslaughter, 3) leaving the scene of an accident I caused, 4) amount of time you would have to serve for speeding in a construction zone, and finally, my favorite, 5) the amount of time you would get for back-handing a supercilious employee of the DMV, after being ridiculed for the third or fourth time in the past ten minutes, I bailed out.

So yes, after all of that, I failed the test. I have had a driver’s license for fifty-three years without either an accident or a moving violation on my record and yet, because I am not up to date on the criminal justice system for crimes I would never commit, I am being denied a license.

After failing the test, I left the facility, went to lunch with my grandson and his mama, browsed through the art store, and hit the toy store for good measure. I then returned once more to the DMV to retake the test. After suffering through Baldy’s broad smirk, I returned to the computer, expecting I could just jump into the test. 

But no, that isn’t the way it works. I had to start over from the beginning with my thumbprint. And you’ll never guess what happened next. Never.

Wait. You did guess it?

If you guessed that the computer did not recognize my thumbprint, you perceptive reader, you, then you guessed correctly. 

Exit, Mark, Stage left.

On my way out, I paused long enough to regale the facility and all six people in there with my opinion, “You folks (Baldy and Betty) are here ostensibly to help people take care of business, and you do help some people. But you don’t help everybody. You don’t give elders much help at all.”

On my soapbox by now, I continued, “And when I phoned yesterday to ask a clarifying question, I was unable to access the automated phone system. The man who had done the recording while taking time off from his job as an auctioneer, spoke so fast I couldn’t even tell what was being auctioned off in the first place, let alone whether or not I had to take a written test.”

Under pressure, I then managed to find the front door and exit the building with no plans to return. Even if I were to call the DMV again, there is no one on the other end of the phone to plead my case to. Just the auctioneer and he’s selling, not buying.

I went 134 consecutive days at the start of the pandemic without leaving this mountain, so I obviously did not need a driver’s license. And I guess I really don’t need one now. At least, not badly enough to deal with Baldy again. Funny how “badly” and “Baldy” have the same five letters. 

Not that funny, I guess. It’d be funny if I had a driver’s license in my hand, but somewhere along the line, I seem to have lost my sense of humor.