Having recently moved to Mississippi from Tennessee, getting a new driver’s license was a big item on my to-do list. The same day I decided to tackle that task, my sister Leana mentioned she was taking her truck to the shop for needed maintenance. I offered to pick her up so she could come with me. Apparently going to the DMV sounded more interesting than waiting around on her truck, so she agreed.

Leana climbed in my car just as I put the Jackson DMV address into the GPS. “No, no, no,” she said. “The Jackson office is notorious for being crowded. We’ll be there forever. There should be fewer people at the DMV in Pearl.”

My sister had lived in the area for more than three decades, so I was confident her advice was sound. Indeed, the Pearl DMV office was practically deserted. What Leana had failed to mention was that the Pearl DMV is DIRECTLY across the street from a prison. Yes, a prison. Maybe, dear sister, that’s why the Pearl office isn’t a popular spot.

Still, we were there, and I needed my license. We went inside and were greeted by a man who obviously loves his job. I believe his exact message was, “What do you want?”

“I just moved from out of state and need a Mississippi license.”

He rattled off a list of things I needed and seemed surprised as I handed him each item. He shoved the papers back with a ticket that read “B423” and told us to take a seat.

We joined a few other people in the small seating area and watched the activity. Three women, at three different windows, worked to assist customers with their needs. A man seated at a computer with his back to everyone could be seen through a fourth window. When my number was called, Leana and I stood and approached the counter.

I don’t remember the woman’s initial greeting, but I do remember thinking she was unlikely to win the DMV hospitality award. I turned to exchange a glance with my sister and was surprised to see her scurrying back to her seat. Clearly, she had no interest in getting to know Ms. Congeniality.

I tried to give my sister a “I can’t believe you abandoned me” look, but she was more interested in a spot on the floor. I turned to the woman behind the window. “I moved from out of state and need a Mississippi license.”

She shook her head. “You gotta fill out an application. It’s on the website. Do that and bring it with you next time.”

I pulled the completed form out of a folder and slid it across to her. She frowned and her eyes narrowed as she gave the paper a cursory glance. She sighed audibly before turning to her computer and began typing. Occasionally, she would ask me for a document and, more often than not, would take it to the mystery man at Window Number Four. One of the documents of concern was my birth certificate. Her eyebrows knitted into one as she scrutinized it. She took the suspicious document to Number Four, but he must have approved it because she started typing again once she returned.

Next, she asked me what day I was born, and I replied with the correct date. The woman held two documents in the air. “You put April 2 nd on the form, but this—,” She rattled my birth certificate, “—says you were born on the 23rd.”

She glared at me as though I were trying to pull a fast one. I wanted to say, “Lady if I were going to lie about my age, I would be years, not days, younger.” I suppressed the sarcastic response and instead replied, “I think you are looking at the date the form was filled out.”

She shook her head and pointed to the stamped date at the top of the form. “April 23rd.” I took the paper from her and tapped the handwritten date in the Date of Birth box. “April 2nd.”

She snatched the decades old document from me and turned back to her computer. After a few more trips to Window Number Four, she told me to stand in front of a screen so she could take my picture. Afterward, she said something I couldn’t quite hear.

“What?” I asked.

“Sign your name.”

I looked for paperwork to sign but saw nothing. I asked, “Sign my name?”

The woman let out an audible sigh. She made no attempt to hide her annoyance as she spit out the words, “Sign your first and last name.”

Still confused, I asked, “Sign what?”

I looked around and saw what looked like a card reader on a low table to my right. Looking at it more closely, I saw a faint line with an X beside it. I grabbed the stylus and signed my name. My signature is, and always has been, illegible.

Ms. Congeniality’s eyes widened as she looked at her computer screen where my sloppy signature must have appeared. She turned to me and yelled “Sign your name!” so loudly I imagined the prisoners across the street would be scrambling for writing implements.

“I signed it,” I said, glancing at the small screen below me just to make sure.

“Your first AND last name!”

I had signed my first and last name and had no idea what the issue was. I said nothing—just stared at her blankly.

“You have to sign your name to get a mobile ID!” She punctuated each word by pounding on the desk with her finger.

I had never heard of a mobile ID but wasn’t about to ask questions. She continued glaring at me while I tried to think. Finally, I thought I understood. “Does my signature need to be legible?”

“You need to sign your name!”

I signed again. I did my best to produce a signature that would pass muster—I just didn’t know what muster was. When the woman started typing again, I surmised that the second signature had satisfied her. However, I knew things would not go well if anyone ever used my license to verify my signature on any other document.

As I waited for whatever came next, I glanced at the woman working at the next station. She shook her head and mouthed the words, “I am so sorry.” That made me feel a bit better. Maybe I’m not the problem child here.

After another few minutes, Ms. Congeniality handed me my newly printed Mississippi driver’s license. “Check it. Make sure everything is right.”

I did as I was told. My name and birthdate were both correct. Address and eye color, also correct. Height. Hmm. With great reluctance, I said, “I’m 5’2. This says 5’3.”

She held out her hand. “Gimme back your application.”

I handed it over, and she looked at it. She was no doubt disappointed that I had filled in the correct information. She returned the form with a shrug. “My bad.”

I offered her my new license, but she recoiled as though it might bite her. “You want me to fix it?”

“Y—you said to make sure everything is correct.”

“You want me to do everything over because of one inch?” She leaned toward me as she spoke and again emphasized each word by pounding on the desk.

“Uhm—well, it doesn’t matter to me if it doesn’t matter to you.”

She looked at me in a manner that left no doubt just how little it mattered to her. I gathered my things and turned to my sister. “I’m an inch taller now and my signature looks like a forgery.”

“In other words, you have a REAL ID that looks fake?”

I nodded. We walked outside and I looked at the “gated community” across from us. “I guess that’s what you get at the prison DMV.”

Figure legends: [Map photo] The Pearl DMV is used as a landmark to help visitors find the prison. [Document] A portion of the author’s birth certificate showing the style that was common in the mid-1960s.