VI Chapter 5
What it’s like in Maine:
Bring title and old registration to town office.
Pay for registration transfer, excise tax, and sign up for transfer of inexpensive vanity plate (only $15, hence the five year reign of POETREE). Pay. Get new sticker and new registration.
The end.
This is what they mean when they say:
“Welcome to Maine. The way life should be.”
V. Chapter 5
Here’s the random story: I talk to customers at ON all the time. A few months ago a woman came in to exchange shirts she purchased for her daughter because they didn’t fit. ON didn’t have the right size, so the woman came back in my line and just returned the shirts.
Perhaps it’s because I am a writer and have done journalism work, but people open up to me with ease.
As I appraoched the customer service desk at the RMV, I noticed the girl at the desk was wearing a shirt from ON, so I just knew it was the daughter of my customer. I didn’t say anything the two times I went through her line, but I saw her out in front of the office on my way to parking lot and figured, what the hell.
So I said, “I have the most random question for you.”
She was skeptical, because people leave the RMV pretty pissed, so she probably thought I was going to complain about something.
Instead I said, “Does your mom shop at (ON) a lot and does she go camping in the Cape all the time?”
“Yee-es…”
“And did you just get this job a little bit ago and she bought you shirts that she had to return because they weren’t the right size?”
“Yee-es…”
“I thought you were the daughter. I know this is totally random, but I work at (ON) and I remember when your mom came in and told me all about your new job and stuff. And I figured it was you because I recognized the shirt you’re wearing right now from work and you’re younger and she said you were nervous about your first job.”
She was laughing and sort of pleased at the quirky coincidence. She asked if I were working later today because she planned on going after work. I told her no, probably not until Monday. Then I asked her how she liked work because her mom said she was shy. She laughed, probably exasperated that her mom tells her life story to ON cashiers, and said she liked it. I told her she did a good job and said thanks.
Random.
Hop to front of line, thanks to my “return pass.” This is a nice innovation.
My serve: All the previously processed paperwork.
New RMV worker’s serve (I guess we’re playing mixed doubles): The staggering $170 total.
My return: A blip overhand to end the match with the cash turned over.
I have my new plates and my new registration.
IV. Chapter 4
FINAL: 5-1, no more POETREE (my personalized license plate in Maine) but a MA license plate with generic numbers. Poo but at least it’s done. I survived.
They should give out stickers, like when you vote; I survived a trip to the RMV today.
Stay tuned for the final installment, the epilogue. I lovely little tale about the mere 3 degrees that separate folks in the South Shore of Massachusetts.
III. Chapter 2
Commerical Break- I walk to BOA. There’s a big sidewalk sale going on in Quincy Center. Lots of junk being sold at stands. The street is closed off and decorated in squares with chalk. It’s pretty. A DJ is playing country music. As a result, I find myself singing “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” while standing in line to withdraw from the teller (because I can’t remember my new pin number). On my way back, I observe the lonely booth vendors who have no visitors. I feel bad and want to visit all of them, but I’ve a car to register. And I return.
When you get to the RMV window, it’s like a tennis game: I have all my paperwork, so I’m like a pimped out Williams sister with fashion forward skirt-dress thingy and titanium alloy racquet or whatever it is they use.
My serve: a State Tax Exemption (MSV-29) form since I paid excise in Maine, completed and signed.
His return: Car was purchased in MA. The form is no good. You have to go to the dealer to get proof of purchase on their letterhead. He’s about to dismiss me but
MY return: a fierce backhand with BAM! the bill of purchase
1-0
My serve: The Maine title. It’s good.
2-0
My serve: The registration, complete with proof of insurance, filled out in its entirety at the insurance company. Except I forgot to write in the mileage but remembered right before I went up to the window and wrote something feasible in. Ha ha.
3-0
My serve: The old Maine registration. It’s good, again.
He has the new potential plate out, he’s filling out numbers and other paperwork, I’m almost there.
4-0
My serve: I pull out the debit card.
His return: Cash or check only.
I look around to see if it’s 2006 or 1986. It’s definitively 2006, but the RMV hasn’t stepped up to the debit card plate (oh crap I just mixed my metaphors).
4-1
His serve: There’s a Bank of America down the street
My return: I’ll be right back
His return: I’ll give you a slip to slip to the front. (Foul out, serve to me.)
The Registry of Motor Vehicles, or Car Purgatory
July 21, 2006
I.Preface
Have you ever watched Judge Judy? You know the people who are really organized and have file folders? They’re always the ones who win. It takes some effort.
That’s what it’s like at the RMV. You have to have every piece of paperwork ever generated regarding your vehicle and it needs to be spotless.
It’s like a combination of Judgemental Judge Judy and the Soup Nazi.
“This isn’t notarized; no registration for you!”
“The DOB is written wrong; no registration for you!”
“You don’t have insurance yet. No registration for you!”
But they’ve really smoothed out the waiting part: they have a customer service desk to give out numbers and answer preliminary questions. I have the most random story about that, too. And coming soon, I shall explain it all. Stay tuned.
