A Thesis on Human Suffering

Now that I have a job, I'm required to devote many hours of my life to soul-sucking life maintenance: things like setting up a local bank account, registering vehicles and sorting the catch all "documents."

My soul was particularly damaged when I tried to register the motorcycle in the state of New Mexico. See, progressive New Mexico has both the tradition, state-run Dept. of Motor Vehicles offices, PLUS privately operated "DMV Express" or "DMV To Go" or whatever. The private places impose a cost premium of say 100% but can get you out the door in like 20min. Unless You are me, trying to register a bike. The thing is, my bike (being from a state where vehicles actually age from things like road grime and shitty weather) has a damaged "Nader Label." On a car this label is located on the driver's door jam, but on a bike, its a sticker near the bottom and susceptible to damage. And even though the VIN is printed on the bike frame, the engine and ANOTHER label, the privately-run, follow-the-rules, high-cost office would not allow registering the bike. They recommended a "level-3" VIN inspection requiring involvement of the state police (never a good idea), multiple return trips and $50 worth of inspection.

Libertarianism fails New Mexico and I declined this option.

I recognized immediately that I needed an office that was a little more gritty. Not a "by the books" rookie, but a gristly veteran that got results, no matter how hard the chief was riding his ass. GOD DAMMIT, THE MAYOR SAYS SHE IS TIRED OF CLEANING UP YOUR DEAD BODIES. I knew I needed the state run offices. I needed to be amongst the people, the offices of the proletariat. THE PEOPLE"S OFFICES.

That's the problem with these God Damn high brow establishments, they have too much time to scrutinize the details. Too much time to live in their own heads, seek the righteous life and seek out the fucking Nader Label. IT WAS THERE, IT'S JUST TORN!

At the state-operated office, I was calm. It was four times larger than the private places and featured maybe ten times as many customers. I was there at lunch and arrived moments before noon. At 1pm my number was called for the first time; #234, this initial trip to the window was merely a vetting process. A simple formality to establish who had the gull to move forward so as to weed the weaker, paper-work deficient, and those who did own the cognitive functionality and delicate touch required in a room full of maniacs like this.

Hours 2 and 3 were trying times. I maintained a zen state, knowing that small inconveniences like this needed to be shouldered for the good of the people's office. In fairness, the whole damn state is like a century old so I suppose some leeway can be given in the "they're still figuring these things out" department. It was saddening however to watch the other people in the room, like animals being beaten with a stick, not knowing what they had done to deserve such harsh treatment or how to make it stop. The blood pressure of the room was so high it made my ears ring.

The situation came to a genesis deep into hour three. I almost didn't notice because I was so calm, having figured out the convoluted digital numbering system that placed my "out of state title transfer" into the lowest rung of plausible execution and as such making me a third class passenger on this Titanic among the strip malls. But I was comforted by knowledge, where my temporary associates were left to wander in the dark, no hope of finding a state I.D. card or English language translator they so desperately needed. But the roof fell in when an employee announced a failure of the licensing system. License renewals, new applicants, I.D. card seekers in the dark- they were all out of luck.

I thought the crowd was going to tear her apart. Literally, just for a moment,I expected to see the mobs full fury. Why weren't they rioting? They had been there for hours, like me, but instead they shuffled out the door, cursing under their breath. CHOOSING to leave, rather than wait, perhaps as a last attempt to take some control back in their lives.

Leaving of course proved most damning, as the system "came back on line" just moments after the last broken soul had given up all hope. (Had there ever even BEEN a system failure? Maybe.)

And that was it. Later, I had my yellow New Mexico motorcycle plate but I was too to appreciate it. What had I just witnessed? Why were those people so defeated? I couldn't stop thinking about abused domestic partners and engorged aneurysms. Why hadn't those people burned that place to the ground?

I got back to work by 4pm. No one commented on my absence.