Public Dentistry and Other Adventures in Civics

I’ve become very chummy with the government this month. The tax assessor wants an inventory of every lamp my company owns; the I.R.S. wants my financial soul laid bare; my birthday triggers motor-vehicle rituals; and a jury summons arrives like a party favor. Congratulations, citizen Dave.

Government services are very egalitarian; they have a history of “trying men’s souls” equally. I applaud the impartial treatment, even as I hiss at inefficiency. You don’t need Adam Smith to tell you that without competition, quality depends less on market pressure and more on the temperament of the public servant behind the counter.

In our century, the invisible hand has gone digital: the better your website works, the fewer frustrated citizens show up at your counter. Whether you’re selling smartphones or collecting taxes, that’s a powerful inducement to lean into technology. All but the most fervent paperwork devotees will swap their monopolistic power for fewer interpersonal hassles—not to mention less work. I’m about to test this theory.

My driver’s license expires soon, forcing me into the arms of the local bureaucracy. In a surprising deviation from its long history of playing gotcha, Georgia recently instituted an easy-to-overlook postcard reminding me to renew my driver’s license. My brother once let his license lapse for years and had to start over with written and road tests—generating as much amusement for me as consternation for him. I know the stakes, so I dare not miss this renewal. After some motivating self-talk, I bravely enter the lion’s lair just off West Lanier Avenue. 

Instead of the DMV designation that most states use, Georgia entrusts driver privileges to the Department of Driver Services. Sharing initials with my dentist may be truth in advertising, but it’s hardly reassuring branding.

Technology’s invisible hand is working in my favor.

I filled out the renewal forms online, but my age requires appearing in person for a vision test, and, I assume, confirmation of a lively pulse. I arrive mid-morning to a bustling DDS office, but glide through the process without noticeable aches—tooth or otherwise. Technology’s invisible hand is working in my favor.

Having completed the application in advance, I skip the computer kiosks, am given a number, and offered a seat. The automated service clearly posts the number and service window that will handle each customer. When my number is displayed, I walk to the designated window, and the clerk scans my license, conducts a simple vision test, and takes my photograph. Voila!

The only difficulty seems to be my intrusion upon the clerk’s conversation with his coworker at the next window. I struggle to discern which of us he is addressing—this citizen at the counter or the confidant next door—because his eye contact never leaves the screen. Not quite the “excellence and respect” in their mission statement, but in the world of public dentistry, numb indifference trumps pain.

With this good fortune, I drive to the auto tag office and am greeted with a smiling face and immediate assistance. Unlike the DDS clerk, this welcoming lady is unencumbered by an extraneous conversation and easily shares niceties with me while her computer makes short work of noting my emission compliance. Within minutes, she issues me that little square sticker in exchange for a crisp Jackson and happily sends me on my way.

Flush with bureaucratic success, I turn to local agencies less enamored with the digital tide. The Fayette County tax assessor’s declaration form has just this year moved online, but prefilling the basics appears to be a bridge too far. No name, address, or tax ID has changed in 25 years, but why not let me enter it all again? Same with the city occupational tax form. Some cherished powers can only be extracted with shiny forceps.

I must give both the city and county governments kudos for picking up the phone when I call. The operators can’t always answer my questions, but they happily direct me to yet another blank form to complete. 

If my call is so very important to you, you might try hiring someone to answer it.

This bests most calls to commercial establishments who extol my importance and never fail to caution me to listen attentively because “our menu options have recently changed” (as if I have the foggiest notion of last month’s offerings). After wading through option after option last month, Delta informed me that the wait time for the next operator was 91 minutes. Muzak for an hour and a half? No thank you. If my call is so very important to you, you might try hiring someone to answer it. 

I used to consider income tax preparation a separate circle of Dante’s Inferno, giving Americans a foretaste of unrepentant recompense. I believed line 13b could be calculated if you knew the secret handshake. How foolish! TurboTax simply summons a number from the netherworld. I must accept this by faith—the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. Very biblical. No need to disturb the underworld.

I could go on. Passports, Trusted Traveler, and other federal documents renew online. Utility meters must be spinning, but they’re always out of sight. And although “postal service” remains an oxymoron, electronic communications have largely rendered it superfluous.

So, how am I handling this blitz of civic demands? I may be passing the exams, but I can’t muster much school spirit. Technology, for all its lack of human warmth, lends an invisible hand that smooths the roughest bureaucratic terrain. Georgia’s agencies seem to be taming their own small menagerie, but jury duty is another species entirely. I’ll send a zoo report once I know whether I’m observing or on exhibit.