Image of Unhappy at the DMV.   

It’s time to renew my driver’s license. This musing  comes to you before my visit to the friendly  Department of Motor Vehicles. 

Not all my experiences have be dreadful, but I do dread this necessary venture to the DMV.

An Honest Account: What Happens at the DMV

• Arrival: Take a number. Usually it’s a three-digit number like 813, that shows your place in line. It’s only 9 a.m.
• Book. Your book is at home, not in your bag. Now, invent stories about the 25 strangers stuck in the waiting room.
• “Cellphone Use Prohibited.” People ignore the handwritten signs. Everyone around you is talking into their cellphones on speaker mode, using their outdoor voices. Nobody is reprimanded. One timid woman mutters under her breath, but you aren’t sure what’s bothering her.      
• During the five minutes you are in the restroom, you sense you’ve missed your turn. When you ask the friendly-looking person in the first row, the one person not on their phone, about your number. He shrugs his shoulders. You look at the monitor, which reads number 15.     
• Egads! What’s that odor? The guy who reeks of cigarettes and dirt. What’s that cloying smell? It’s the scent when strawberries and passion fruit collide.  
• For real? The two people who came in after you are already leaving with smiles and paperwork.    
• Guessing games. Who is up next? You study the clerks behind the windows. Who will give you the eye test.    
• Hallelujah! It’s your turn. You pass the eye test, correctly answer all the questions, and have your picture taken.
• “Is this photo alright?” the kind person behind the window asks. You know darn well that photo doesn’t capture your inner beauty. The expression is all wrong.
• Jeez. Could you take it again, please? This time, you ignore her directions and give her a big smile.
• Keeper! The photo is a keeper.  License is mailed to you in four to six weeks.  
• Maybe you’ll be back in five years to renew your license.
• No, you’ll be back, unless you own a flying car by then, in which case, you will not need a license. But you could need a Real ID, also available at select DMVs.     

Image of Marty the robot at work.

 Who is checking you out at the grocery store?

    Marty, that’s who. It’s the annoying slender robot roaming the aisles following shoppers. Or maybe it only lurks and hums behind me. Marty is Giant’s googly-eyed slender silver robot that runs on lithium batteries.

    Its job? Marty monitors the aisles and alerts management about messes silently. No chant of “Cleanup on aisle four!” when a broken bottle of salad dressing creates a slipping hazard.

    Marty performs this job without an attitude or any gratitude. Safety first. But this silver one’s secondary role is spotting out of stock items on the shelves. The grocery chain’s leadership claims Marty is not meant to replace employees.

    But the employees at my Giant do not like this guy.

    

“Marty’s a jerk,” an employee says to me without explaining why. 

    The employee rolls her eyes and turns back to her work. My guess is Marty trails behind her too and gets in the way. Well, that’s too bad. It cannot talk, only beep or chirp. But Marty can and has run away, escaping out of the automatic doors and rolling into the parking lot. 

    Did it want better wages, working conditions, or company?

    As a non-robot, I enjoy micro-conversations during my routine errands. But with more self-checkout stations, I’m doing more scanning and less talking.

    I am not longing for deep discussions with strangers, and it’s rare to dive into topics that transcend the ordinary. But who stands behind the register matters. In my experience, three archetypes exists like “Transactional Tom,” “Be My Friend Betsy,” or “No Name I Don’t Care.” Sound familiar?  

    Transactional Tom is polite, efficient, and exudes confidence. He doesn’t need to look up the rutabaga price that stumps the average checkout employee. His expectations are simple: sell you the goods and accept your payment.  

    While Be My Friend Betsy makes eye contact, smiles, and begins talking. In five minutes, she tells you her special story. She earned a master’s degree in social work. She misses her old life. She’s happy/unhappy to be back living in her childhood home. Do not worry because you will learn more details next time. Betsy needs someone to listen and nod. I find this personality type thrives in small town stores.

    Unfortunately, the I Don’t Care employee works in every town. This person makes you feel responsible for their unhappy state using their loud indifference and silent irritation. 

    Usually, they don’t look at you, but you see their smirk waiting to emerge. A gruff barking voice asks: “What is this” as they fondle the fennel in their hands. I answer, bag my own food, zip pay, and rush out in case his condition is contagious. 

    I do not want a case of indifference. The price is too high.