I think I mentioned in an earlier post that in the city of Chicago you need a sticker to park your car. On top of the permit sticker you need to purchase in order to park in the area you live in, you need ANOTHER sticker to just park in the city. Yep. That's Chicago. Anyway, when I registered my car with the state of Illinois, they told me I needed to go buy a city sticker at city hall. Well, I wasn't about to go stand in a long line just to buy this ridiculous sticker when I know that they are sold at those check cashing places...those places that sell bail bonds, cash your paychecks, etc...you know...where poor people go. Whoa, that was rude. Of course, I'm just kidding...poor people don't have paychecks. In Chicago, there are check cashing places on EVERY corner. Let me put this in perspective for my Southern readers. Picture your neighborhood...now replace all the churches with check cashing places...that's Chicago.
My first attempt at purchasing a sticker was unsuccessful because I didn't bring anything to prove my residency. My bad. I ask the woman what would constitute proof of residency and she told me that a lease or car registration would be acceptable. No problem. The next day, as my roommates go grocery shopping, I head off to another check cashing place in a less than desirable location with my car registration. When I walk in, I head to the woman who looks like she could be a friend of my mother behind the wall of plexiglass (remember the plexiglass...it is an important live-saving element in this story). She had her white hair in a short, semi-trendy cut, looked to be in her 50's or 60's, and seemed to have stepped out of a Chico's ad from 1998. I feel safe with this lady. I feel a familiarity about her. I feel confident that this old white lady will be friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful. I felt wrong.
She asks if she can help me and I slide my car registration papers under the plexiglass partition and tell her that I have just moved from Kentucky and need a city sticker. So far, so good. She looks down at the paper and a look of confusion comes over her. "This says 2007 on it," she says. What? I know I just registered the car last week. I look down and she is pointing to a hand-written date in the bottom corner of the registration.
Warning: This is where the tumor starts developing.
Yes, this lovely old woman has disregarded the computer printed information and decided that the most important date on this form is scribbled in pencil in the margin. Okay, maybe she is just confused. When she was still young enough to drive, everything was written in pencil...on cave walls. I simply correct her and say that the date she is referring to was the date I registered the title with Kentucky. The woman at the DMV had a made a note in the margin of the registration of the old title and milage. I'm thinking, "Problem solved. I have explained the hand-written note. She will feel embarrassed, make some reference to being old, say that I'm 'sharp as a tack' (the elderly use such phrases), and will now give me my sticker." Apparently, Grandma Moses with the semi-trendy haircut is still not convinced. "No. I'm sorry. This says 2007. I can't help you." I respond with, "Seriously? Look at the printed date on the form. It even has a time stamp. It's from 4 days ago. I haven't even put the sticker on the plate yet. It's still attached and says 2010. If it were from 2007, it wouldn't have a car tag that says 2010 on it. Besides, that's written in pencil. It was just a note." This piece of logic passes right over her semi-trendy hair-styled head and our heroine turns to her co-worker for support. Her co-worker (a latina who apparently had to be poured into her lycra outfit) is currently helping a family get a bail bond and has no time to deal with Nana's foolishness. She takes a glance at the paper, but Granny Check Casher has covered up the dates with her hand and is pointing to the penciled date of 2007. Jennifer Lopez, Jr. quickly says "no" and turns back to what she is doing. I raise my voice a bit and say "Wait! Look at the printed dates. This is ridiculous. That is a hand-written note about my last car registration." The co-worker who is probably irritated because she is running late for her second job at the Strip Club/Car Wash just rolls her eyes at me and goes back to her station. Old lady turns back to me and says, "I don't think we can even accept car registration as a valid proof of address. Believe me, I don't want to give the city anymore money than you do. I'm here to help, but I don't think I can take this." First of all, the last part of that statement is irrelevant. Second, the other lady at the check cashing place from attempt #1 told me it was. I ask her if there is somewhere she can check if car registration forms are acceptable and she says that there is a list on the wall...and then remains seated on her stool. "Well," I say, "can you go check, please?" She goes to the wall and begins to read the list..."Number 1. A lease agreement. Number 2. Car registration. Number 3." I interrupt, "Whoa! Stop! Car registration. That's what this is!" She comes back over and looks at it for a minute and says, "I just can't accept this."
At this point, I look around the room for cameras and Ashton Kutcher. I am definitely getting Punk'd. With a high-pitched, trying-not-to-scream voice, I say "This is a car registration form. You just said you accept them. Please. Please, take one more look at it." She looks down, then inexplicably looks around the room and says, "I can't help you" and pushes the registration papers back under the partition. I push it back and say (maybe screamed...but come on, wouldn't you?), "This is ridiculous! You aren't letting me buy a sticker because you are focusing on a scribbled note in the margin of the actual form!" At this point, I can feel my face becoming more and more red and my hands begin shaking. I'm the anemic tomato version of the Hulk.
"Look at the computer generated dates! Look at the sticker! Have you seen a car registration form before?" I try to stick my hand under the plexiglass partition to point to the correct dates, but can only fit half of my index finger under. Upon seeing a small portion of my finger under the window, she backs up off her stool. Are you kidding me? What does she think I'm going to do? Does she think I'm going to go-go-Gadget finger and poke her? Come here, old lady! Put your Chico-clothed body within a half inch of the plexiglass so I can poke you with tip of my finger! I have no idea what is going through her mind at this point (if anything), but she continues to back up until I remove the inch of my finger I could fit under the plexiglass. She pushes the paper back and turns her head to avoid making eye contact with me, her own version of the "if I can't see you, you must not be there" game. She continues to repeat, "I can't help you, sir. I'm sorry." I continue to yell, "Are you serious? This is ridiculous! Just read the form!"
I realize this is not going anywhere and that whatever poor life choices she made to lead her to this job has clouded her judgement. I grab the papers and mumble some expletives as I storm out. I feel overtaken with anger. I can't stop trembling. I have never been so thankful for a plexiglass partition. If it had not been for that, I can't say what I would have done. I have never been so physically upset over someone's complete and total lack of common sense. Following her logic (or lack there of) I could have gotten a city sticker with just a post-it containing a random date and a picture of a frog in nail polish.
I head over to the grocery store where my roommates are shopping and begin to tell them what happened. Their eyes become huge, they are silent, unmoving...I figured they were as outraged as I was. One of my roommate stops me and says, "Drew, you are screaming in the middle of the frozen foods section." The rest of the night I am silent. I can't let it go. My roommates pick up on it and suggest I go lay down while they prepare dinner. It affected me that deeply. Why had semi-trendy haircut lady gotten into my head so badly? Why is she a moron? Why isn't she in a home?
Now, this story does have a happy ending...
The next day, I drive my car home to Memphis and while there decide to leave my car instead of bring it back to Chicago. If I had dealt with a competent person that day, I would have bought a city sticker only to not have a car in the city a week later and been out 80 bucks. So, thank you, dumb poo-poo head old lady (I'm still working on my anger toward her semi-trendy hair-styled self...)
This is priceless!!! Even funnier the second time I heard it
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