The tenth circle of hell, located on 34th Street between 8th and 9th Avenues and boasting easy access by the 1,2,3, A,C, and E subway lines, is reserved for Procrastinators. It's earth name is "Speedy Easy Branch of the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles". Obviously, it is not unusual for procrastinators to arrive late: There's so much to do in the area other than that which needs to be done! Stop by Macy's (pictured), hit the HMV, eat a kebab in Herald Square or test yourself with some even dodgier all-you-can-eat Korean food.
I did none of those things. I'm all sorts of fired up for the BBP, and I'd eaten on the subway. (Note: If any of you sons of bitches who eat McDonalds on the subway are reading this, know that one day I will joyfully set you and your grease-stinking Big Mac on fire. I have the technology, and. . .dammit. . .I'm being brave nowadays. So put that odorous stuff away or I swear the kerosene, bic lighters, and marshmallows on sticks will come out--and the other passengers will make me their goddess of public transport.) I ate a banana and an apple, like a civilized human being does when she's on the subway & travelling to Hell.
Got off at 34th Street, and walked West. I had on me: My expired Illinois driver's license, my passport, a certified copy of my birth certificate, 2 recent utility bills, a filled out license renewal form, that New Yorker with the incredibly long article on Obama and Chicago politics, a David Sedaris book. a sliver of Ghiradelli chocolate, three ways of paying the egregious renewal fee, and a light silk-blend cardigan (because I didn't know what the air-conditioning would be like in Hell). I mean to say, I was prepared. But worried. Upon my back I could still feel the lingering and unnerved handprints of my colleagues Sandy, Jamie and Erin--all had gasped when they'd heard where I was going. And then there had been the silence that says far more than words.
South side of 34th Street: "Easy Speedy License Renewal"--you could, I have walked by this a million times without noticing this sign. Discretely glazed glass and a humble shopfront hides the systemized misery within. Threw open the doors and. . .
Beneath low corkboard ceilings there were lines of defeated people coiling in all direction. To the right, about 12 people sat in low chairs with blue-padded acrylic seats: I shudder to think what they did to earn those seats. The other hundreds of people stood slumped as the hum of fluorescent lights beetled its way into their skulls. I joined the line closest to the door, so anytime someone entered they smacked my right thigh with it. The line said: First Step, Forms and Questions. I tried to go to the line that said For License Renewal, but a lady with a stick beat me back. Ok, she really didn't have a stick, she just pointed her finger--but it was extremely long and bony. So I stayed in the first line, smugly looking through my manilla folder, thinking of how prepared I was. And the air-conditioning was fine.
Eons pass, and after several decades my skin seems as if it should be hanging from my bones like wet crepe paper, but then I reach Satan's employee at the desk. Satan's employee wears a rather questionable combination of headband and sticky-up hair, as if she's auditioning for a music video in 1986. I smile ingratiatingly as her cold eyes rest contemptuously on me. I know she smells the fear. "Uhm--renewal of a driver's license. Please." "Social Security or a Passport," she says, as she slowly gathers together forms that I, the genius student of the DMV, already have and have filled out. "Yup! And my birth certific--" I clutch my passport before me, like a small vinyl shield. She eyes it with loathing--"I said Social Security card and a Passport." "But I. . I have my birth certif--" "You need a Social Security card." Satan's E. doesn't say the word "Dumb-ass", but that's only because it's understood.
She pulls a lever and next thing I know I am sliding down a sharply battered metal chute, and suddenly am spat out skidding on my ass across the dirty-mop damp floor of a Wendy's in Mid-town.
Ok, there may be some exaggeration towards the end of that story, but my Be Brave act was to go head to head with the NYC DMV, and I think we all know who won that encounter. Apparently we all need to carry social security cards nowadays (A. I haven't seen mine since I was 11--I was told to memorize my number, which I did. B. I wasn't aware I was living in a cold-war novel circa 1972.)
So I felt defeated. It was sorely anti-climactic to be walking back to Butler Library without a hot little NY Driver's license on me. So, I asked myself, what do you do when you don't achieve anything? If I were really being brave, I would have fought more, would have actually gone to--gasp--the Social Security offices.
But I am scared of them, because of my financial tangle. . .so I didn't go. So I was not brave.
Oh crap. And suddenly it began to bother me that I have procrastinated so much, that I have so damn many things I have to be brave about in order to sort out my life a bit. A lot. The days wasted doing nothing because I did too much, too late, the night before. The opportunities thrown to the winds, because like some spoiled Hilton I thought that time and opportunities were endless. . .
But then it occurred to me that I had made a new rule: A BBP action doesn't count until it is followed through on. Namely, I hadn't heard back from my Soprano's named accountant, Louie. So I sat my Wendy's slick ass down on a bench, pulled out my useless DMV forms and turned them over. Then I called Louie and had a brief, frank discussion.
And it was marvellous! So many thanks to Maggie for recommending him! Not only did he sort of show me what my first step for neatening out financial chaos should be, but he gave me a golden gem of information that I didn't have. This gem of info., these words dropped casually from Louie C.'s angelic mouth, came to this: That the three years I convinced myself I owe back taxes for? I'm wrong about that-- I owe nothing.
And oh, the difference it made.
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