mesa dmv

Maybe I should have just kept my old driver's license.
The Arizona State Department of Motor Vehicles in Mesa was a scary, desolate, flood damaged building planted firmly in the way of all progress. I got there early and the place was deserted except for the stray tweakers watching the trash and contemplating identity theft. Of course, it wasn't long before one of these English-mouthed, black-toothed freaks made a move on me. All frantic and herky-jerky like.
Luckily, I brought an epi-stick with me and if you've ever seen a tweaker on a full shot of epinephrine and residual methamphetamine, you'll fully understand the saying "chicken with his head cut off." Squawking. Fluttering. Deranged. It was a laugh riot. For about five minutes.
I'd pulled a number from the red number machine and though the LED on the wall was off by a power of ten, apparently I was up.
Her name was Wanda. She was of the golden accented beehive clan. I would bet she couldn't enter a parking ramp with that hairdo. She had surprisingly well developed jaw muscles which I attributed to the wad of gum she was masticating. Shamelessly. Loudly. Pop. Pop. She clutched a pen like a weapon and used it to point out my deficiencies, both administrative and real.
I left emotionally scarred and without the coveted 35 year AZ driver's license, but like General Douglas MacArthur said regarding the Phillipines in WW2, I too remarked, "I shall return".
And I will.