How the State of Illinois made me a criminal in Louisiana

Literary Review, Fall, 2004 by Fredrick Barton

In January, 2003, six days before my driver's license expired on the birthday I share with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I went to the New Orleans renewal bureau and promptly began to stand in line with about three dozen other unlucky Capricorns. I had been allowed to renew by mail four years ago, so this time the State of Louisiana required that I be seen as a real live person and not just a signature on a form. Anybody can sign a form. But only real live people can stand in line. And standing in line is why we have bureaucracies. I think that fact is in the Constitution. So being a real live person I stood. And I stood. And I inched. And I stood,

Finally, six minutes short of an hour after I began standing, I found myself face to ear with Mr. Nameless Functionary, a bespectacled man with gray temples showing out from under his stocking cap, who never, even once, took his eyes off his computer. He was wearing knit gloves with the fingers cut off allowing him to type. It's true it's warm in Louisiana, but only outside.

He stuck his arm and hand toward me, palm up. "License and proof of insurance," he said, his tone as flat as leftover beer.

Being the incessantly prepared (not to mention impatient) sort, I already had these items out of their wallet pockets, and I laid them immediately in his blue fuzzy hand. He brought the insurance card briefly in front of his face, then just as quickly handed it back with no comment. The bottom edge of my expiring driver's license he stuck between the cream-colored plastic frame and the lower-left-hand corner of his terminal screen. Then he began to type. He appeared to be a good typer.

He typed. Then he paused. And though I never saw his face from the front, I think he squinted, though perhaps he just blinked.

Then, just as he paused again, he said, and I quote him with great accuracy, he said, though not loudly, he said, "Hmmm."

Hmmm? Hmmm!

I speak from experience when I assure you of this: When you have already waited in line almost exactly an hour, you are not anxious for Mr. Nameless Functionary handling your case to stare at his computer screen and remark, "Hmmm."

"What's the matter?" I asked, still bursting with confidence. It is true that two months earlier I had gotten a speeding ticket for driving forty miles an hour on Claiborne Avenue where the speed limit is thirty-five and most people drive fifty. And it's true that I was sullen with the police officer who ticketed me, resentful that I got a ticket for driving only forty when most people drive fifty and even sixty. But it's also true that I gritted my teeth, paid my ticket and went on with my life. I had a current license plate, a valid brake tag, and no outstanding violations, not even a parking citation.

"Sumpin up here," Mr. Nameless Functionary said, typing again.

"Something's up?" I inquired. "What? What's up? What could be up?"

His fingers flurried his keyboard, and I tried unsuccessfully to twist myself over the counter between us so I could see what he was doing.

His fingers paused, and he said, "Ah, here it is."

Add to the List of phrases you don't want to hear muttered about you: "Ah, here it is."

"Here what is?" I asked, concern creeping into my voice.

As if flicking away an insect that had alit there, Mr. Nameless Functionary brushed his fingers across the top several lines on his computer screen. "Can't renew your license," he said, his tone registering neither pleasure nor regret.

"Can't renew my license?" I responded. "I've waited in line over an hour. What do you mean you can't renew my license?"

"State of Illinois's got a block on you," Mr. Nameless Functionary. explained.

"What??? What does that mean?" I demanded.

Mr. Nameless Functionary pointed at the lines on his computer screen. "What it says. State of Illinois's got a block on you."

"You said that before. But what does it mean?"

Mr. Nameless Functionary shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "It means State of Illinois's got a block on you. That's why I can't renew your license."

"We're talking in circles here," I said to the man's ear.

He shrugged again. "All I know," he offered, perhaps in the way of helpless consolation.

"All you know is that you can't renew my license because the State of Illinois has a block on me?"

"Um hmm," he said.

"That makes absolutely no sense whatsover."

"All I know," Mr. Nameless Functionary said. He hit a computer key and his screen blinked to an opening menu, my State-of-Illinois-blocked record blipped into cyberspace. "Next," he said in a loud voice.

The sixtyish black lady behind me in line shouldered up against me at the counter.

"You can't just take the next person in line," I protested. "What am I supposed to do now? I need to renew my driver's license."

Mr. Nameless Functionary shrugged. What he lacked in eye contact, he more than made up in shrugging.

"This is like something out of Kafka," I said to the black lady, though intended for the bureaucrat's ear. I instantly regretted the unbidden appearance of a literary allusion. These were not circumstances where literary references were likely to win you any favors, so I hurried on to address Mr. Nameless Functionary directly: "I insist you tell me what I am supposed to do now."