I Love the BMV

I went to the BMV today to register Big Whitey (the Kia Sedona) and transfer the plates from our now dearly departed Elantra. It has already been a fiasco getting the title for the van, as the dealership "lost" it. (This seems concerning...The one thing I wouldn't expect a dealership to do is lose titles.) But after six or seven weeks, I finally got the call that the title was available, so I headed over to the nearest license branch to take care of the plates and registration.

The BMVs in Indiana have been under great pressure to get their act together over the past year. The average wait time at the BMV had grown to something like six days, not to mention the fact that you could get a state issued ID from the BMV if you had proof of being a living organism and nothing else, so a new BMV czar was elected and he set off trying to straighten out a badly broken system.

So I headed into the BMV with optimism that this experience would be better than those of years past. As I entered, my first clue of the improvements was that there were only a handful of people seated, waiting for their names to be called. In previous trips, you would walk in and be handed a number, "7" for example. You'd look at the electronic monitor and it would be on "4," but you knew that this meant there were at least 100 people in front of you. I actually had been told on multiple occasions to leave and return in three or four hours. It was ridiculous.

So I plopped in the chairs and waited. Sure enough, only a few minutes passed before a clerk called my name. As I approached the clerk, I noted that her demeanor suggested that she probably wasn't a recent charm school graduate. She dryly asked me what I was there for, and I replied that I needed to "transfer the plate from this old car," and handed her the registration from the dearly departed Elantra, "to this car," and handed her the title for Big Whitey. She stared at both for a moment and said, "there will be a charge for being late on requesting the title." I quickly handed her a check from the dealership for the title trouble, which she accepted, but I could tell that she was already developing a lack of trust in me.

Next she began analyzing my old registration.

"Where did this come from?" said with a face that suggested it was a forgery.
"The license branch in Brownsburg."
"Hmm...I don't recognize the name," as though she knew all BMV employees statewide.

After she decided that it was a legitimate document, she began hammering away on her computer, sighing approximately ever 15 seconds. After taking my Mastercard to pay the appropriate fees, she printed off a long receipt and the new registration and sent me packing.

Despite her prison cheeriness, I was pleased with the experience. Short and to the point. As I walked out toward the van, I noticed that the plate number on the registration did not match the plate from the Elantra which I had placed on the van that morning. Instead, the number on the registration was for our Sonata, which we still own.

I immediately turned on my heels and headed back inside. My clerk, we'll call her Helga, was nowhere to be seen, but luckily the branch was empty so another clerk called me up. As I was explaining the situation, Helga reemerged and inquired as to "what (he's) doing back?" I explained the problem, and she rolled her eyes and plopped back in front of the computer.

She then inquired of another clerk, "Can't he just switch the plates on his van and Sonata when he gets home?"

Now anyone with enough fingers to hold a pencil can tell you that this won't cut it. For starters, she effectively "sold" my Sonata, as far as the state's computers were concerned. I started to protest and was told, "Let us try and fix it before you butt in, sir."

Everyone needs a moment to be reminded of their rage management skills in a given week, and apparently this was my opportunity. I sat quietly while she and her coworker discussed whether this was a viable option. After another couple of minutes, I said "This isn't going to work. I'm going to have a mess when I renew my registrations next year, not to mention if I get pulled over. Plus the amount of excise tax I just paid was based on the wrong car."

She sighed heavily and said, "I'm not supposed to void nothing out. That's what the commisioner said."

"I don't think you have a choice."

"But it'll go on my record."

She then stared at me as if waiting for suggestions. I shook my head and said nothing, although my face and internal being was shouting, "I don't care what you have to do, just fix it. Your record is of no concern to me."

At this point, her supervisor emerged from the shadows and said, "You don't have a choice. You'll have to void it and start over."

Much sighing and rolling of eyes ensued. As she began punishing her keyboard again for her mistakes, she showed her coworker something on the screen and said, "See how I got confused?" She then mumbled, "Who buys two Hyundais, not to mention the same year?"

Again I shuffled to my happy place and resisted the urge to protest. After much mumbling to herself, the printer spit out new receipts. She showed me that I would be getting a refund for the overpaid tax due to her error, and she handed me a new registration for Big Whitey which was correct. I gathered up my belongings and headed for the door, resisting the urge to give her a piece of my Korean car drivin' mind.

As I reached the door, her supervisor reemerged and began reading her the riot act about her lack of customer service skills. She was also hammering on her about the fact that apparently she never logs out of the computer when she goes to lunch, leaving the terminal open for potential abuse. I felt bad for her, for a second. But then I was happy that SOMEONE now appeared to be managing the BMV.

Overall I'm glad it's over with, and Big Whitey is serving us well. I'm getting 16 MPG which means I swear a lot at the gas station. Perhaps in the coming weeks, Helga will get the opportunity to pump the gas for one of my "stupid Hyundais" after she's booted from the BMV.