The Making of a Libertarian

Recently I made my second visit to the Massachusetts’ Registry of Motor Vehicles in six months.

The first time was the result of being a nervous Nellie. I decided to have my truck insured here, with the same folks who do my homeowner’s insurance, right after I decided to live full-time on the Cape, so that meant I had to get it registered here as well. And that meant I had to get it inspected.

And I actually had to go to the Registry since I was transferring a vehicle from, you know, a place as far away and as foreign as New Hampshire. This complicated transaction couldn’t be done over the Internet. Strange as it still seems to me, after all that, I also had to take my truck to a different garage where a guy photographed it, because you never know what kind of a junker those NH folks might be trying to sneak into good, old, honest Massachusetts.

But, since I had a perfectly valid driver’s license in New Hampshire and, in fact, still owned the condo there, I hadn’t changed it over to Mass. The NH license, after all, had until 2012 to go so turning it in early seemed like a real waste of money.

Inevitably though, I began to think about what the police officer would say when he pulled me over and I presented a Mass registration and a NH driver’s license. I was confident I could explain but the more I thought about it, the more I thought I better get the Mass license.

I also needed a Mass plate for my old boat trailer. I only use it twice each year: once in the spring to bring my skiff to the beach and once in the fall to bring it back. But God only knows what horrendous penalty I would pay if everything wasn’t A-OK.

As an aside, I had already arranged for a visit from an environmental police officer so he could inspect my twenty year old skiff because I built it and even though I have used it safely for twenty years it might not be sound enough for Massachusetts’ waters. He provided me with all the paperwork necessary to register the boat in Mass but that is another story.

So I present myself at the Registry on Cape Cod on a snowy morning last week. I wait in a line and fill out a form. Both sides. When I get to the counter, the lady there asks what I want and I tell her. She says I will have to get in line twice because licenses and registrations are never issued by the same clerk. She does not explain why. I’m sure it has to do with something so dense I would have trouble grasping the concept.

She chooses the license for me as my first assignment and gives me a number beginning with A and sends me to the benches on the right side of the big room. I sit and find that a daily paper has been abandoned there which I commence to read. Before I finish it the second time my number is called. I present myself at the correct window and explain what I would like to do. The young lady looks at my NH license and asks for a “certified” birth certificate, a Social Security card or a current passport, none of which I have on me at the moment.

I ask what we need to establish. She tells me we must determine my age, clearly listed on my NH license along with my birth date, and my U.S. citizenship as well as my residence in Massachusetts.

I produce my truck registration. Massachusetts no longer prints small registrations on thin pieces of paper that fit easily into your wallet. They give you an 8.5 by 11 sheet of paper. When I got mine, I cut the bottom half off where my insurance information was copied to make the top half smaller for my wallet. I always keep my insurance information in the truck so why would I need it twice?

The young lady tells me my abbreviated registration is not legal with the bottom cut off and it will cost $25 to get another copy! She wants the birth certificate, SS card or the passport AND utility bills for my alleged place of residence. I’m desperately trying to think of what other documentation I might have with me. I produce a new check with my Cape address. She is unimpressed.

I ask if I will have to start all over again when I get back with everything she requires. Reluctantly, she says I can come directly back to her.

I drive home. All the way wondering just what evidence 12 million illegals have produced to get their shiny new driver’s licenses.

I return to the registry and skip the first line going directly to a bench in front of my Gal Friday. There is loud muttering in line number 1. She finishes with a customer and I jump up. She avoids looking at me and says that I need to get in line and get a number. I explain that she herself, not more than 30 minutes ago, had said I could return directly to her station. She looks up. What do you want?

We begin again. I have a new passport and more utility bills than the Boston Garden. She studies my NH license and all my paperwork. She begins typing into her computer. I’m optimistic. I ask how much I should make the check out for. She informs me that is the very last step. My optimism wanes. Or is it possible she doesn’t know, off the top of her head, just how much a Mass license costs?

I take an eye test in a little contraption on her desk. I sit, smile and have a rather demented picture taken. Now I pay $100. She hands me an 8.5 by 11 piece of paper. No handy little plastic licenses for me! She warns me about cutting any part of it off although fully two thirds of it is blank.

I ask about registering my boat trailer. I attempt to pull out the NH registration. She looks alarmed and says in a whisper that she isn’t allowed to discuss registrations at this LICENSING station but she hopes I have my insurance papers! My heart sinks. Does Massachusetts require insurance on the stupid trailer as well as the truck? As I exit the building I know I have been defeated. I take one look back. My gal has left her station on the right side and is helping someone on the left side of the room TO GET A REGISTRATION!