There are a select few dependable topics that are guaranteed effective for initiating verbal interaction with strangers.
“Isn’t this weather crazy?” always works.
“Boy, can you believe (insert name of notorious celebrity, athlete, or politician here)?” is another.
Some are more location-specific: “They call this slop food?” works better at a cafeteria than it does while waiting in line at the supermarket, the post office, or the hardware store.
But while such trite comments are fine for striking up random conversation, they are also patently unfair. The weather in Maine really isn’t any more unpredictable than it is in most other places. And why should we care about the outrageous activities of habitual attention seekers? If reality TV stars, loudmouthed talk-radio hosts, and prima donna athletes want to act like the back end of a horse, let them. If we’d ignore their choreographed antics, maybe they’d just go away. And as for cafeteria food, more often than not it’s nutritious and/or delicious. If it weren’t, no one would line up to buy it.
Thoughtless, small-minded talk does a disservice to some truly good people, like weather forecasters who get it right 99 percent of the time, famous folks who are just like anyone else, and hard-working, dedicated cafeteria workers who give their all just to keep their fellow human beings healthy and well-fed.
If there’s any group who can appreciate the unfairness of empty-headed profiling, it’s the staff at any Department of Motor Vehicle Office. These dedicated public servants are far too often tarred as slothful, condescending, unhappy people who love nothing better than making ordinary citizens wait 45 minutes to consult with someone who’ll gleefully bury them in enough red tape to detain them for another hour or two.
An experience I had last week reaffirmed something I’ve always believed: No group is less deserving of negative stereotyping than the individuals who work at the motor vehicle department. I entered the Kennebunk DMV office last Thursday afternoon at approximately 3:15 p.m. Less than 15 minutes later, I emerged with a sticker on my old driver’s license, a promise my new one would arrive in the mail within three weeks, and the distinct feeling that I truly mattered.
The woman who assisted me was helpful to a fault, smiled at each lame attempt at humor I made, and even cheerfully repeated several instructions that I had either not heard or failed to fully understand the first time she uttered them. She graciously complimented me on passing the vision test with flying colors, and on top of that, it only cost $30 for another six years’ worth of driving privileges. In my book, that’s a bargain!
So was my brief experience at the DMV last week completely satisfying? Well ”¦ almost.
Since getting my first-ever license in 1976, I’ve noticed one specific shortcoming which is endemic to every DMV office I’ve ever visited. And it’s not just Maine; I’ve had similar difficulties in other states.
It’s their cameras. DMV employees are utterly incapable of taking an attractive driver’s license photo.
The face peering out from my first driver’s license in 1976 looked like that of a young, confused simpleton. Fair enough; that’s what I was at the time. And when the one they took four years later came out looking like the village idiot, I laughed it off. Mostly.
But after awhile, it’s tough to maintain healthy self-esteem when your driver’s license photo keeps making you look like the elephant man’s less attractive brother.
The person pictured on my last four licenses has resembled, in order: a leering porn peddler, a victim of 37 concussions, a genetic experiment involving the mating of an ape and a giraffe, and one of the sketchy-looking suspects in a police lineup where the 90-year-old victim is trying to identify the guy who smacked her over the head with a blackjack before taking her purse.
So last week when the kind lady at the DMV asked me if I wanted to re-use the picture on my expiring license or get a new one taken, the answer was obvious. Having shaved, showered and combed my remaining hair not long beforehand, I was brimming with confidence.
The first photo she took, however, looked like a strung-out crack dealer on his way to a Charles Manson lookalike contest.
“Let’s take another shot,” she said encouragingly. “Try to smile this time.”
The next one merely looked like a homely guy who writes a lot of bad checks. I knew better than to ask for a third try.
I can’t say enough good things about the treatment I got at the DMV last week. But would it be too much to ask to have their employees take a photography course every couple of years?
— Andy Young, an English teacher at a York County high school, is a very handsome fellow. The 5-year-old, only slightly retouched photo at the top of this column should serve as verification of this.
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