There are three places in the space-time continuum that I never want to be stuck: Dante’s Eighth Circle of Hell, Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell and New York City’s Department of Motor Vehicles. Monsters of the deep reside in all three, but only the DMV can test human patience with impossibly long lines and such an obscure system of identification that it makes airport security at JFK International blush.

I came to New York with a South Dakota Driver’s License of four years. I got it at 14—South Dakota is the only state in the Union where a 14-year-old can legally drive a 2,000 pound weapon—and there were only two people in line. The entire ordeal took half an hour.

During my second year in New York, I applied for a swing-puppeteer position in Central Park’s Marionette Theater. The job required me to learn a puppet show that took daily tours of New York’s five boroughs and drive the “puppet-mobile” to said shows. The puppet-mobile, as cool as it sounds, was actually just a big bread truck with creepy marionette faces painted on the side. All I needed for the job was a New York license to drive this bitch.

I naively walked into the West 34th Street DMV with a smile on my face. It was erased after I saw the daunting line. Every person looked sticky with sweat and angry at life. After two hours of waiting, the terrible man behind the counter abruptly sent me home for lacking the proper identification.

“But I’ve got my freaking I.D. right here! I just need to change it to New York State!”

“We need four more points of identification, sir. Now if you’ll move to the side we can help the people behind you,” he coolly replied.

The gentlemen behind me was discussing “how the fuck” he owed “that bitch” money, and how if he ever sees that “bitch-ass face” again he’s going to “fuckin’ kill” him. This conversation took place on a Nokia that was turned loud enough for the dear old couple 10 feet behind him to get the picture, sans hearing aids.

What ensued after this setback was a two-week search for a birth certificate, a passport, a social security card and anything else to prove to those bastards that I was me. Upon my return trip to the DMV, a new emotion took over like a demonic possession: anger.

I was aware of how ugly everybody else was around me: A jack-ass yapping away at six or seven decibels, the jerk at the front just waiting to kick someone out of line for lack of “points” and the 300-pound man two spaces ahead of me wreaking of sweat and flesh.

I pulled out my phone and complained loudly to whomever who was unlucky enough to answer. They had to go after 10 minutes. I clicked the phone shut angrily and pouted. I took to nervous muttering like a reluctant saint, “I hate this place; I hate these people; I hate New York...”

But then these words made me stop. Another change took place that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I gave the man at the counter my I.D. and got my license two weeks later. I swore I would never go back until it expired.

I got married and subsequently ate my words. I took my wife to perform the same I.D. juggle. A flood of horrifying memories crashed down, only to be interrupted by those life-changing words coming from my wife’s mouth: “I hate this place; I hate these people; I hate New York...”

I then realized how those words had transformed me: I was the asshole on the telephone, threatening death. I was the man who smiled when the emo-kid with the black hair got turned away for being “point-less.” I was probably the smelly guy too. But, most importantly, I was the ugly monster from the bowels of the worst place in the universe: I was a New Yorker!