DMV purgatory, part two
Should’ve been my first tip off that I couldn’t find a parking space right away, that I should’ve come back another year. I felt like one of those mall piranha, the women in SUVs with beginning middle-age spread, trying to find a parking spot closest to L.S Ayres. Spending more time wasting gas and aggravation and screaming children, than if she’d just picked the spot midway back.
I wasn’t shopping for spaces, though. I just wanted a space.
And I figured out the number system, sort of. They don’t give them out in sequential order, because if they did, you’d despair of ever getting out of the DMV before you died. There is some sort of logic behind the number system, I’m guessing, but not one I can fathom. I was B279, and they were serving B232 when I arrived. But there are also numbers for the next several letters of the alphabet, and it makes no sense why I got what I did, and the person behind me might get C96.
