A day at DMV is a day you’ll never get back

Write what you know. That’s the scribbler’s credo.

But what if, after due consideration, you decide you really don’t want to know about a subject, after all?

Like trying to picnic in hell and finding it even warmer than advertised, by then it’s too late.

I found myself thinking that very thought about halfway through Thursday’s excruciating and nearly daylong odyssey at the East Sahara Avenue branch of the Department of Motor Vehicles. (Unofficial motto: “All Hope Abandon, Ye Who Enter Here.”)

In recent weeks I’ve interviewed a long line of Southern Nevadans who have had their souls steamrolled by the crush of humanity, changing regulations, increased bureaucratic hurdles and glitchy technology at overwhelmed DMV offices throughout the valley. Although the anthill of misery at the Henderson office grabbed most of the headlines and nightly news reports, I noted in drive-by trips that every office appeared overrun with folks attempting to remain street legal.

In years past I’d had good luck at the Sahara office. Despite long lines, the DMV front-line crew was experienced, and the increasingly complicated bureaucratic paperwork involved with driver’s licenses and vehicle registration was settled without a single existential gnashing of teeth or Kafka-esque rumination.

Compared to those experiences, Thursday’s nightmare was like winning a date with Dante. Just when you think it’s over, it just keeps on going.

It started with such promise. After cataloging a long litany of complaints about DMV experiences, I decided to give the new “Q Less” (to the inexperienced, it’s pronounced “Clue Less”) technology a try.

It seemed to work great. I phoned in and received a text update. I’d need to catch a break if I was going to renew my driver’s license and register a disabled-access van.

But there was a glitch in the computer. My driver’s license came up “suspended” since 2012 due to an insurance carrier mixup. Thanks to the strength of the insurance lobby in the state, the potential fines for this are withering. I immediately started calling my current and past carriers to find the fumble.

Since I was officially suspended, however, there was only one way to get my license renewed — reinstatement. That meant getting back in line, waiting again for my number to come up, then taking the written and driving exams. Yes, just like back when you were 16. I grabbed a manual and started cramming as the numbers, suddenly, seemed to more slowly tick by.

When it was my turn for the test, I sat down with the confidence of a Kamikaze pilot — and missed the first two questions. (Miss 10 and try again tomorrow.) Slowly, I squinted and focused and gradually skidded away from oblivion. (Quick true or false question: Doubling your speed also doubles your braking distance. False! It quadruples it.)

I passed with a question to spare. That is to say, barely.

Then my number was again placed on the waiting list. Reaching the next attendant seemed to take an hour. My early arrival turned into a lunch-hour marathon. Once I again reached a human, I was told the insurance issue couldn’t be squared away that day. I’d have to wait until the information was processed into the DMV computer system, and that could take several days.

Speechless, I gathered my paperwork and returned to a seat in the crowded main area.

I looked to the left and right, cursed my impatience and counted my blessings. I had a job with flexible hours that I wasn’t in danger of losing if I wound up delayed in a DMV line.

Those possible assessments for the insurance snafu? It would hurt, but I could figure a way to handle it. Sooner or later, Nevada’s Driving-Is-an-Expensive-Privilege office would have to let me back in the club.

Then I looked at the long line of fellow citizens without smartphones and, from the desperate looks on their faces, without a day they could afford to waste at the DMV while bureaucrats in Carson City yammered about one day soon expanding services to meet rising customer needs.

It’s a generalization, but I saw a lot of brown and black people, heard a lot of Spanish spoken. If asked to bet, I’d wager many were from the lower end of the economic scale — the mass of humanity crippled by rising insurance prices and DMV fees and penalties.

I counted myself lucky, reminded myself to never take anything for granted, and drove away.

Illegally, come to think of it. But let’s keep that between you and me.

John L. Smith’s column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Email him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call 702-383-0295. Find him on Twitter: @jlnevadasmith