Baboons and Bureaucrats Page 2

numerous blank lines.

  She walks to her desk and sits down, chatting with her colleague who sits directly across from her.

  Perhaps she is not a complete baboon. She didn't sit next to her friend to groom and pick lice and bugs out of her hair, and swallow those tasty morsels, or at least I couldn't see it. Although I cannot hear their conversation, several words sound like grunts. Baboons constantly grunt throughout the day as the grunts form the core of their language.

  Then I remember the fifth rule of baboons. Baboons will live, socialize, eat, and drink with the same individuals their whole lives, remaining side by side with the same baboons for the rest of their lives. If anything, that would be depressing.

  I glance in her direction.

  She picks up a fork and stabs at bits of food in a casserole - an American concoction of noodles, broccoli, chunks of mysterious white meat of dubious origin held together by a thick glue of pale gravy. Crunchy worm-like onions and specks of ant-like seasonings wiggle across the gravy as she picks at the food with her fork.

  Then she pops the fork with food into her mouth, chewing it, and then swallows it.

  I grimace as my stomach churns and grumbles. I taste acid in the back of my throat as the bagel and coffee want to flee from my stomach the quickest route possible. I bend my head down and massage my stomach. After a minute, the sickness subsides and fades. Then I remember Rule 6 - baboons are omnivores. They can eat anything. Nothing is too rotten, disgusting, or unappetizing for the baboons.

  I begin filling the remaining blanks on the application as best I could and leave several blanks here and there. After 15 minutes, I reach the end of the application and scrawl my signature and scribble the date.

  I clear my throat, "Uh-uh." Then I mutter, "I'd filled it out the best I could."

  She turns to stare at me. Then she drops the fork onto the casserole, slowly rises from her chair, and returns to the counter. She takes the application and studies every detail. Then she lays the application on the counter and moves her finger to a blank line.

  "You forgot your father's birthday."

  "Oh, that's right." I start thinking - I know he was born in 1960 and we always celebrate his birthday in July but the date keeps eluding me. We normally dine at an expensive restaurant on the weekend closest to his birthday. Then I raise the pen and scribble July 13, 1960.

  She takes the application and returns to her desk. She slides the keyboard near her and strikes several keys.

  I become nervous, and pray that a wrong date will not ruin my day.

  Then she inserts the official paper for birth certificates into the printer as the printer whirs into life. After several seconds, the printer spits out the paper.

  She grabs the paper, signs it, and presses the paper with the official court seal.

  Then she walks to the counter, "That'll be thirty dollars sir."

  I grumble and count the cash from my wallet and hand it to her.

  She takes the money and lays the birth certificate on the counter.

  I place the new birth certificate next to the old one and compare them. They are identical, except the old birth certificate had yellowed more with a frayed crease through the center, where I always fold the certificate in half.

  She writes a receipt and hands it to me.

  I slide the documents in my folder and return to the DMV.

  I approach my place at the end of the line that moves slowly.

  After another hour, I approach the same woman.

  I'm not sure if my anger has started playing tricks on me, but she seems to smirk ever so slightly as I approach the counter.

  I pull out my new birth certificate, driver's license, and credit card statement. She studies all the documents.

  A man exits from one the numerous offices that form a straight line at the back of the DMV. The overweight man struggles breathing while an unhealthy reddish hue has infested his skin.

  The workers in the office become quieter, shuffling more papers and tapping keyboards louder. The workers look down as he passes, and once he had passed, they sneak glances at him. He walks to one of the desks and drops a bundle of documents into the tray.

  Then Rules 7 and 8 for baboons pops into my mind. Rule 7 - Baboons always know the exact hierarchy and they always fear, envy, and compete with the higher ranking baboons. Rule 8 - higher-ranking baboons usually develop severe health problems over time as they become afflicted with high blood pressure, hardened arteries, and high cholesterol. The leadership role wreaks havoc on their bodies.

  Once the higher-level baboon had returned to his office and closed the door, the woman slaps the documents onto the counter and snaps, "You need one more proof of address."

  "What?"

  "Didn't you read the checklist?"

  "The checklist?"

  "I gave you a checklist this morning."

  Then I remember. I reach into my front jacket pocket and pull out a crumpled light blue paper. I unravel it on the counter and slide my hands across it to smooth out the creases and crinkles.

  She points to the top center of the paper, and I begin reading the heading - Two Proofs of Address. Then a list of approved documents follows the heading.

  I let out a long sigh. Then I grab the light blue paper and shove it into my pocket, shaking my head back and forth. I turn to go.

  The old lady snaps, "Next customer."

  I rush to my car, jump in, and speed home. I run into the house, searching for anything with my name and address on it. I search the pile of utility bills accumulating in the bottom desk drawer.

  I finally see a water bill with my name on it.

  I glance at my watch - sssshhhhit. The license bureau will close within ninety minutes.

  I run to the car while my stomach starts growling and grumbling, screaming for food. But I drive the thought of food and hunger from my mind. I return to the license bureau, violating numerous traffic laws in the process.

  I run to the door and rush in and stand at the end of the long line, again.

  I just made it as a security guard flips the sign on the door - Closed.

  He looks at me, nods his head, and says, "You've just made it."

  I look for my nemesis, standing behind the wooden counter.

  She glances at me as her eyes widen and she jerks her head back in surprise.

  After another eternal hour standing in line, I approach the old lady, remove all my documents from the folder and slap them down onto the counter in front of her.

  "I finally got everything," sighing with relief.

  She shuffles through the documents. She holds the documents up and straightens them on the counter to make the pile align up neatly. Then she places the stack on the table. Then she adds, "Did you bring your proof of health insurance?"

  "What?"

  "A proof of health insurance."

  My mouth hangs open while my eyes squint for several seconds. Then I snap, "I don't understand. I didn't see health insurance on the list."

  I begin pulling out the light blue paper from my pocket while she pulls a light pink paper from a stack and places it in front of me.

  Then she states, "The department has just updated it requirements for a driver's license.

  I study the pink paper and see a fourth column has been added - Proof of Health Insurance."

  My heart starts racing while my face reddens. I just want to scream at her, but I inhale a deep breath, keeping my anger under control.

  I ask slowly, punctuating every syllable clearly, "What does health insurance have to do with a driver's license?"

  "I didn't come up with the regulations, sir. I only make sure we follow them."

  "But a driver's license only shows proof a person can operate a motor vehicle?"

  "Then perhaps you should write to your legislator. They are ones who write the laws that the department must follow."

  I want to stand my ground and argue with her, but I know that would be futile. Although she appears
old and frail, baboons are exceptional strong.

  I grab the documents and pink checklist and shove them into the folder and turn to go, muttering "damn it" under my breath.

  After exiting the DMV, I scream "God damn it," as I shake my fists at the heavens.

  The guard peers outside and snaps the door lock shut with a click.

  I stomp my way towards the car and scream, "Those god damn baboons have made everything impossible!"

  Then understanding invades my mind. I must say those baboons are very clever. When no one was looking or noticing, the baboons grabbed control of our government, and what becomes even more frightening - a large gathering of baboons forms a congress, and they sure have made a mess of everything.