It was my worst nightmare. I lost my wallet on vacation.
Trapped on the East Coast without an ID, I dreamed that the White House would suspect me as a terrorist and tap my phone. I imagined some kid making a down payment on a Porsche with my credit cards. I even conjured an illegal immigrant stealing my identity to bus tables at an American restaurant.
All of it combined was nothing compared with the panic I felt when I realized I had to return to the Colorado Division of Motor Vehicles to replace my driver’s license. My first trip to get a Colorado driver’s license in 2003 was a four-hour ordeal.
I had my nice next-door neighbor FedEx my passport to me so I could fly home. But as I read the Division of Motor Vehicles website Thursday, I couldn’t find information about replacing a lost license. I had to call the DMV.
To spare yourself an hour of dialing busy signals, write this number down – 303-937-9507. The people who answer can tell you how to get your driver’s license replaced. The catch is, they can’t do it for you.
Once more, I found myself at the DMV.
“I lost my license,” I told a pleasant woman at the desk marked “Start Here.”
She asked for my passport, then handed me a tag with the number 680 printed on it. She made a joke about the South Park cartoon neck strap I wear with my newspaper ID. This was the same neck strap I wore the first time I went to the DMV. That time, the receptionist suggested that I move back to Virginia.
Things were looking up. Then I looked up. The number being served was 666, the Mark of the Beast in Revelation.
I shuddered and took my seat to wait.
I was not the only one on edge.
“Are you sure she told you to wait here?” a mother asked her teenage son. “I just saw her walk outside. Now, she’s driving off.”
The mom’s voice echoed the angst of squandered opportunity, something everyone in the room feared. But the kid was right. Soon, the DMV lady returned to take him to whatever test he faced.
I don’t know about his mother, but I grew giddy with relief.
Number 667 got served. So did 668.
“669,” called a clerk. “669. 670. No 69. No 70.”
Number 671 strode to the counter. Likewise 672 and 673.
Dear God, I thought, this is working. I quickly pushed the optimism from my mind. It was bad luck, like talking about a no-hitter in the seventh inning.
Then, a miracle happened.
A woman who had not been in the waiting room when her number was called went to the counter out of order and was served. There was a time not so long ago when she would have been shooed away like a miller moth and sent toward the back of the pack to contemplate for a couple of extra hours her decision to go to the restroom or grab a smoke.
At No. 676, I actually felt the need to relieve myself. It was nervous anticipation. But DMV suspicions die hard. I battled my bladder.
And then came the magic call. “680.”
He was a polite and efficient man named Michael. I’d like to tell you his last name, but he had put tape over it on his name tag. Why tempt fate?
He looked at my passport. He checked to see if I knew my Social Security number and address. He asked me how much I weighed. I lied 10 pounds light, just like the first time.
Then, I pledged to donate my organs, blew through the eye test like the Broncos’ Mike Anderson going off-tackle against the East High junior varsity and was off to write a check and have my picture taken. I smiled.
The whole thing took 45 minutes. It was no nightmare. It was a dream come true. Sure, it’s pathetic when you feel like a lottery winner because a government bureaucracy finally functions as it always should. But that didn’t take away the joy.
So here’s a shout-out to the folks at the West Mississippi Avenue DMV. You did yourselves and your state so proud Thursday that I’ll be back. And next time, I might even be comfortable enough to answer nature’s call.
Jim Spencer’s column appears Monday, Wednesday and Friday. He can be reached at 303-820-1771 or jspencer@denverpost.com.
