The flickering florescent bulbs bathed the narrow hallway in surreal shadows of light and dark grays. A feckless breeze struggled through the lone air-conditioning grate, located some 10 feet above the disgruntled heads waiting in the line, moved the 20 or so cobwebs dotting the plaster ceiling ever so slightly.
The line slowly snaked its way forth from the wood counter, weaving through the dimly lit hallway before spilling out century-old wooden doors. The hand-carved, ornate doors opened into the main lobby where the line finally ended across from the bathrooms. That’s where Yours Truly stood. Not waiting for the bathroom, but waiting to renew car tags.
A long line, a long wait, and impersonal personal service were to be expected. After all, it was the tag office; perhaps the most undesirable place of all government places to spend the better part of one’s day.
With my pocketful of assorted snacks and non-spill sippy cup in hand, I thought I came well prepared and knew exactly what to expect from this rote task. But I was wrong. No one could have predicted, much less been prepared for what happened at the tag office that day.
It was a Monday, and the line moved slowly even by tag-line standards. Soon others joined me, others who for one reason or another were also as unfortunate as I was not to have renewed their tags by mail. My reason was simple. I forgot.
Between changing diapers, feedings, and doctor visits, the mother of twins directly behind me hadn’t had the time. I watched as she tried to keep one child happy in the double stroller at her feet while checking her documents and feeding a bottle to the other twin in her arms. An all-to-familiar odor wafted up from one of the infants and demanded immediate attention. I promised to keep her place in line as the beleaguered mom headed toward the bathroom.
The florescent light buzzed and then flickered to light gray.
Entering the narrow hallway, I joined the others vying for their part of the barely-there breeze from above. For the next hour, the line inched along making its way through the hallway as more souls joined the collective misery.
Of special note were two teenagers behind me and the man using a walker directly behind them. Oblivious to just about everything going on, the teenagers were singularly focused on their phones. They uttered not a word. The speed of their fingers flying over their tiny keypads was nothing short of amazing, slowing only when the older man with the walker started to loudly grumble.
Bent by time and circumstances, under a WWII veteran baseball cap stood a member of the Greatest Generation. Loose-fitting coveralls and a long-sleeved, red and black flannel shirt couldn’t hide the once powerful frame the mountain of a man still supported. His granddaughter accompanied him, but there’s no doubt the 97-year-old could’ve made the trip himself. Everyone in the hallway knew his age because that’s what he was grumbling about. Why someone 97 had to stand in such a long line.
Momentarily pausing their texting, the two teenagers politely explained that just around the corner was a place to sit and be waited on. He shouted that he still didn’t understand why he had to stand and wait.
Embarrassed, but obviously used to such outbursts, the granddaughter explained, “Grandfather is hard of hearing.” She flashed a smile of gratitude over her shoulder as she led her charge to the seating area for people with handicaps. I’m not sure, but I think they texted her back a smile emoji. Once seated, he asked for and received car tags for his vehicles.
After an hour, it was finally my turn at the counter. Speaking through the glass, I passed my documents and check under the glass partition. I recognized the lady on the other side as the person who was so helpful to me last year.
As she processed my tag, we talked about how wonderful our grandchildren are and how fortunate we are to be able to spend time with them. Always prepared, I shared pictures of mine. She smiled, but it was a sad smile. She said all of her grandchildren were now grown and she was waiting on great-grandchildren.
As I turned to leave she said for me to hug my grandbabies. I assured her that I would. Even though it took longer than expected, my experience at the Tag Office was actually enjoyable. I’m glad I didn’t renew my tags by mail after all.
On the way back to my car, I passed the granddaughter helping her grandfather into the passenger side of her car. I helped place the walker in the backseat, and then said, “Thank you for your service, sir.”
He glanced in my direction and was still grumbling, just as loudly, about the wait as he placed his new car tags on the dash.
She said, “Grandfather is hard of hearing.”
Still driving at 97! He really is part of the greatest generation of all.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories since 2001. To read more of Rick’s stories, visit his blog: storiesbyrick.wordpress.com.]
