Danger in Monterey

When I was 4 years old, I was pushed into a reservoir of sharks. Really, it was an aquarium tank, and by sharks I mean bat-rays. I was actually 10. Rather than pushed, I fell while trying to pet an animal at the Monterey Aquarium. As an avid "Little Mermaid" fan, I felt it my duty to welcome any sea creature that might cross my path.

I leaned over the edge of a bat-ray tank and dipped my fingers into the water. The circular pool was surrounded by children waiting their turn to touch a Myliobatis californica (fancy name for the flappy bottom feeder). The rays swam by, each time a little further from my touch. In my peripheral, I could see a large one swimming towards me. I lunged out to ensure my grasp of the winged beast, slipped on the slimy edge and fell into the tank. The bat-rays scattered.

Luckily, hours spent at our community pool prepared me for such a moment. I was no stranger to curiously-smelling bodies of water. I scrambled out of the tank and ran for the nearest paper towel roll. My favorite outfit was ruined by the salt-water. The 10 grey kittens that danced on my pink sweater would never look the same. Later, my grandparents did not think to ask why my hair was wet and my LA Gears were soggy. They must of thought I was sweaty.

In the following years, I learned to control my excitement when I reached to pet an animal. Goats, baby chicks, and even guinea pigs were no match for my reserve. If anything, the suggestion of a "petting zoo" sent a icy chill down my spine. I often wonder how the bat-ray incident shaped my life. Had that traumatic experience not occurred, perhaps I would have become a famous marine biologist or Shamoo trainer. I could have been the president of the animal kingdom, but no, I live the life a writer/pizza-person. I live with the knowledge that animals have their world and humans have another. We have no reason to pet each other.

Waiting to wait.

The car curse came attempted to sabatage my life once again this week. The numbered stickers that note my car’s registration had disappeared. This is more or less my fault. For weeks after their arrival, I would glance at them as I exited my home wondering if today was the day my car would look prepared for the year 2011. Because I am accustomed to hiding things for myself only to realize I have forgotten my hiding place, I decided to leave them in the envelope on top of the junk mail. The radio player next the door collects and protects all of our junk mail. I awoke last Thursday night in a panic realizing I had not seen the stickers in weeks. After sliding on my socks to the living room, I scattered all the mail onto the floor. The stickers were nowhere to be found.

Theories I have hypothesized concerning my registration stickers:

1. Thrown away by roommates and/or suspect visitors.

2. Aliens, real or imagined.

3. A miniature volcano disguised as a cat toy.

In a twist of fate worthy of a Chuck Palahniuk novel, I had evidence to believe that I was subconsciously plotting to destroy my car’s future. Past actions inspired proof that perhaps I was the one who removed my registration stickers. Many times I have fantasized about pushing my car into a lake or large fountain. I have had dreams in which my 2007 Yaris gasps for air as it slowly dipps into a bottomless body of water. I have kicked the rear bumper on several occasions (the Toyota had it coming.) Given my somewhat evil inclinations one could argue that I deserved my torturous and dismal fate: a visit to the DMV.

The sun’s rays fired on the brick wall that lined the outside of the DMV. I stood along the wall while I waited to get inside. The queue of people in front of me compelled nausea from my stomach. While I was trying to avoid eye contact with strangers, a man with fuzzy long hair attempted to hand me a piece of paper. I refused and glanced at the religious text on the white sheet.

“I will not be joining your cult today,” I thought to myself. A shaved head would not look good on me. My elfish ears would make me look like an alien with cancer. I wondered how brainwashed one has to be to pass out crazy pamphlets at the DMV.

Once inside the tinted glass doors of the Department of Motor Vehicles I explained my predicament to an Asian woman behind a desk. She handed me a number and gave me a form to fill out. It became undeniably clear that I had just waited to wait some more. No person should be reduced to a number and forced to wait for something as meaningless as stickers. To avoid igniting a riot or an elaborate strike I filled out the form.

I sat behind a woman in a hot pink cheetah print jumpsuit. I could tell by the thick stitching she made it herself. She must have searched every store in the greater Orange County area for a pink cheetah jumpsuit. Upon finding department stores in a great deficit of animal print onesies, she was left with no choice but to make her own. I wish I could sew my own imagined clothes. I have always wanted a black glitter jacket with neon tailoring. Maybe I will write a powerfully worded letter to Target. The stock market would dissipate if entire populations started making their own cheetah print jumpsuits.

I tried to read a Kurt Vonnegut book while I waited in a plastic chair but was interrupted by a man screaming directions into a cell-phone. To my displeasure, it was the cult leader or whom I imagined was a cult leader. Who but the cult leader would be willing to spend a day at the DMV just to hand out pamphlets? Maybe the brainwashed people would. I tried not to eavesdrop because that felt rude. After he hung up the phone, he gently pushed a pamphlet in front of me. I again declined but said, “Thanks anyway.” He seemed like a nice man, just a little too into his cult.

Two little boys with shaved heads played tag in front of me. A woman with bleached hair and a studded belt yelled, “this isn’t a playground, sit down!” The boys took the seats next to her. I felt bad for those boys. I wished I was on a playground rather than sitting in a purgatory of automotive transportation. I felt suddenly preoccupied with hopes of liberation and freedom from the DMV.

A man with a prosthetic leg walked up to an open DMV attendant moments after his number was called. I wondered how he managed to still wear sandals. The leg looked liked plastic, but perhaps it was some robotic fiber that forced the toes to spread enough to wear flip-flops. I looked at the TV screen in front of me and felt guilty for thinking so much about the man’s prosthetic limb.

An hour later, my number was called. I had won the lottery, but instead of riches I was rewarded with car stickers. The chaos of the DMV community reminded me of my humanity. All of us are forced to wait and wait and wait.