Small Town Break Down

You know what I can’t stand?

Well, lots of things, but right now I can’t stand slow, stupid, incompetent people.

Now, I might come off sounding like an ass, but there are times when I love big city (even moderately sized city) assholes. They get shit done. They don’t want to tell you about how their day was, what it was like in 1968 back when they were in high school, nor do they give two shits about how my day is actually going.

I grew up in a small town and it was a pretty great upbringing. However, after moving out at age 17 and learning to love the cities of Toronto, New York, Montreal and Halifax, sometimes going back to smalltownsville can be very frustrating.

Case and point: yesterday I went with someone to his drivers’ permit, which is a crock of shit in and of itself, but I digress. God I love digression. Anyhoo, instead of going into Windsor, we went to a little town called Amherstberg. It’s a pretty little place, although parts of it seemed to smell like sour milk poured atop hot garbage, but I won’t judge. No, wait, YES I WILL!!!

The Amherstberg Ministry of Transportation consists of one room about the size of a shoe box. There are three mismatched chairs to sit in. One of which was an old upholstered thing that made me wiggy with the thoughts of the shear amount of dust mites and fleas that could be living in it. There was also a whole wall dedicated to disgusting, dirty children’s toys and books. You know those Lysol commercials where they do the extreme close up to show you computer generated germs and bugs? This place didn’t need close-ups or computer generated graphics.

I wonder if this is what pink eye looks like?

All of these things can’t outshine the star performer in this little town. The (only) woman behind the counter, who sounds like she smokes 34 cigarettes a day, had some sort of freakish inability to filter any of her thoughts from coming out of her mouth. Every single thing this old broad thought, we all got the chance to hear. And, by golly, it was some stellar banter.

After experiencing this amazing place for a mere nine minutes, and listening to the following conversation while she tried to take a man’s picture for his driver’s license,

“Alright sonny, stare at the yellow dot there on the front of the camera, head down a bit, no, up, down, ok, stare here now, eyes open a bit more, I know it’s difficult. You blinked. You blinked again. Try again. I know it’s hard. Head up. Down. Ooops, I missed one of your ears. You blinked, you know you look like my nephew’s good friend he played soccer with. Billy? I think that was his name. You blinked. Ooops, I missed your other ear. Jesus. I need both your ears in this damn picture. Yeah, so Billy. Do you know him?”

Now I'm gonna tell you everything I know about crocheting.

I had to peace-the-fuck-out of this place. I didn’t even make it to the part where she actually got his picture taken. I just looked at him, and said, in no uncertain terms, “I need to get the hell out of here.” He understood immediately and I was gone for nearly 30 minutes, taking in the sights (and rancid/random smells) of this small town.

Upon my return, he had finally made it to the front of the line. New people had appeared, equally as impatient as me. During the next twenty minutes of my life, because apparently that’s how long it takes to renew a permit, I was lost in a vast and choppy sea of rolling eyes and being blown about on the sighs of frustration on the lips of everyone in that room.

Not only did we continue to get the play-by-play from this woman’s brain, we also got to hear a fascinating five minute personal call to this woman’s father who apparently, “Can’t help be but a complete asshole to his own children.” Straight from the horse’s loud mouth, people. This, of course, led into a ten minute conversation about the perils of working with one’s father. I then got to hear about every family in the County of Essex who has fathers that work with their children.

Mother of God, it was an enlightening day.

In the next couple of weeks, I too need to get a new permit for the shit-kicker known as the HYUNDAI (you have to scream it like a martial arts masters while karate chopping the air). I have a feeling I’ll be making the trip to Windsor to deal with delightfully detached customer service reps who simply want to call my number and get me the fuck out of their faces.


~ by Andrea on July 21, 2010.

3 Responses to “Small Town Break Down”

  1. You nailed it! I felt like I was suffering through it with you.

  2. Kind of sounds like when we have to get new licenses in the US. But we also have to wait in line for at least 2-3 hours.

    I love your description of the old lady’s comments. Hilarious!

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