Twelve minutes at the DMV

This ain't your daddy's DMV. Nosiree, Bob. If the Nevada Department of Motor Vehicles ever needs a poster boy, I'm the boy.

My conversion came last week. It's my birthday today and generally when it's your birthday you get a new driver's license. Last year I got my extension through the mail. This time I had to make a live appearance because after so many birthdays they check your eyeballs before allowing you to drive legally. They want to make certain you can get a good look at the other driver just before he crashes into you. It's vitally important that the last thing you see on earth is crystal clear.

Mandatory brain scans would actually reduce the number of accidents in Nevada even more, but they're expensive and most motorists would flunk, leaving the state coffers in horrible shape.

As a matter of fact, if you can't read the top line of the eye chart you shouldn't be walking.

Considering what I'd read about the DMV's computer problems, compounded by the stereotypical notion that government and driving don't mix, I thought I was taking a big chance trying to get a license and car registration done during my lunch break. That's right. I bought a car and thought I may as well kill two birds with one stone, even if there was a good chance that I'd stand in line until my next birthday.

Fully prepared for the worst I entered the DMV complex in Carson City and marched straight to a desk marked, "Information." I didn't remember the Information Desk being there last time I visited. It generally was a game of chance. Get in a line and hope it's the right one. Choose wrong and you go to the end of the next line. Choose wrong twice and they confiscate your license, add demerits to your driving record and force you to register a boat you don't even own.

"Where do I stand to renew my driver's license?" I asked the nice woman at the Information Desk, gazing down the row of 13 or so lines. "Right there," she said, pointing to line 12. "Just fill out this form and you're all set."

So far, so good, I thought, filling out the form while standing in Line 12. I figured the license would take a half an hour, leaving me all afternoon to register the car.

The woman must have noticed I was also clutching my all-important "Proof Of Insurance" and car title and said something I will never forget: "Oh. You didn't tell me you were also registering a car. Just get in the next line over and they'll take care of both at the same time."

She was even smiling.

"You mean I don't have to get in line twice?" I asked, not really believing what I'd just heard.

"Not unless you really want to, sweetie," she smiled again.

I stepped over the next line and started the timer on my watch. No way could I get this done this soon, I whispered. Ten bucks says I'm in this line 45 minutes. It was, after all, lunch, and four of the 13 windows had signs reading, "Closed." You know the drill. Just when you think you're next they smile and slide the "closed" sign to the front. It's a sadistic game of, "I-might-work-for-the-government-but-I-still-have-enough-juice-to-make-you-stand-in-line-till-you-pee-your-pants."

Kind of like those guys holding the stop signs on highway construction projects. You don't move until they say it's OK. Now that's absolute power and the reason I've always wanted to work for NDOT. I want to hold the STOP sign one time before I die. Preferably on a hot day.

So I'm standing in Line 11 watching the second hand on my watch circle and a DMV employee comes out from behind the counter and hands a coloring book and crayons to a little boy who was driving his mother nuts. If you've ever been a parent, you know the mother must have thought she'd seen an angel. I simply stood there staring with my mouth open. I'd seen the coloring book maneuver in restaurants and at the dentist's office, but never in a million years did I expect to see it at the DMV. Not the DMV I'd known and loved.

My timer didn't hit the seven-minute mark when I was beckoned to the next available counter.

From the time I sat down to the time I walked out the door with my new laminated driver's license and license plates for the car, 12 minutes had elapsed. And we even had a conversation about cars.

You don't see that kind of customer service in the private sector much anymore. And their business depends on good customer service. It's not as if you can shop around while looking for a driver's license or car registration. The DMV has nothing to gain, or lose, in the customer service arena.

It must come down to people, then. People who simply want to be professional. People who take pride in their work and in where they work.

Whatever it is, it's good and I hope it spreads.

Jeff Ackerman is publisher and editor of the Nevada Appeal.