Three NYC Mayoral Candidates Walk Into the DMV...

The assignment was simple: New York City's three mayoral candidates would spend four hours waiting in line at the DMV in Midtown Manhattan. No handlers. No press. No red berets.

Just three men, a broken number dispensing machine, and the slow, excruciating realization that nobody actually reads the website before they come.

9:47 AM - ARRIVAL

Curtis Sliwa arrives first, naturally, because he took the bus. He's been taking the bus since 1987 and will tell you about it. He will tell everyone about it. The security guard. The woman renewing her commercial driver's license. A potted plant.

"You know, I was shot in a yellow cab in '92," he announces to no one in particular, settling into a plastic chair that immediately squeaks in protest. "By the Gottis. That's why I take the bus."

He's not wearing his signature red beret, which everyone notices, including Sliwa himself, who keeps touching his forehead where a tan line cuts across like the scar of a forgotten war. Without the beret, he looks vaguely mayoral, like a substitute teacher who's really trying.

He brought a sandwich. Mortadella. From home.

10:03 AM - THE FRONTRUNNER ENTERS

Zohran Mamdani walks in with the confidence of a man who leads by 24 points in the polls and also remembered to bring his Social Security card.

He's dressed like a candidate who's been told to "dress down"—no tie, sleeves rolled up in that calculated way that says I'm relatable but I also went to Bronx Science.

He takes a number: B-47. The screen currently displays A-12.

"This is fine," he says, to himself, to God, to the concept of affordability. "This is why we need to fully fund the DMV."

A man in the waiting area perks up. "You that socialist kid?"

"Democratic socialist," Mamdani corrects, reflexively.

"You really think you can freeze my rent?"

"Sir, we're here to renew licenses."

"My landlord's raising it $400 next month."

Mamdani sits down and opens his notes app. A new policy idea is born. The man has no idea he just became a campaign anecdote.

10:28 AM - THE FORMER GOVERNOR ARRIVES (FASHIONABLY LATE)

Andrew Cuomo enters like a man who's never waited for anything in his life, which is technically accurate if you don't count the four years between his resignation and this, um, comeback.

He's wearing a suit. A full suit. At the DMV. On 31st Street.

"This is unconscionable," he announces, surveying the room with the energy of someone who once controlled a $200 billion budget and now has to take a vision test like a common constituent.

He takes his number—C-93—and stares at it like it just called his leadership into question.

"I built the Second Avenue Subway," he mutters, still processing the indignity. "LaGuardia Airport. I rebuilt after Hurricane Sandy—"

An elderly man in a Mets cap looks up. "Can you build me a bathroom? I've been here three hours."

"Sir," the intake worker adds, still not looking up from her computer, "you're in the wrong spot to stand for the photo. The line is over there."

Cuomo looks around. There is no line. There are four contradictory signs pointing to three different places.

He sits down.

11:15 AM - THE WAITING GAME

The TV in the corner is playing NY1 on mute. Closed captions scroll by: "...Trump threatens to withhold funding...Mamdani responds..."

Cuomo watches this with the expression of a man who's just realized his entire campaign strategy is being outflanked by a 34-year-old assemblyman whose entire resume could fit on a napkin.

"He has no experience," Cuomo says, to Sliwa, to the room, to his own reflection in the vending machine glass. "He literally has never had a job."

"He's a state assemblyman," a woman behind him offers.

"That's not a real job."

Sliwa, three chairs over, is now explaining to a teenager why congestion pricing is "highway robbery"—a phrase he's clearly been waiting to deploy.

"You know what else is robbery?" the teen responds. "These DMV fees."

Sliwa's eyes light up. A voter. A young voter. He leans in. "Let me tell you about my plan for—"

"I'm sixteen."

"—well, tell your parents."

12:30 PM - SNACK BREAK

The vending machine becomes a referendum on character.

Mamdani gets the baked chips. Cuomo studies the options for a full two minutes before selecting nothing. Sliwa already ate his sandwich and is now trying to sell a man in a Yankees cap on why the city needs more Guardian Angels.

"We're not a gang," Sliwa insists. "We're a community patrol."

"You wear matching outfits."

"That's called branding."

1:47 PM - THE MOMENT OF TRUTH

A DMV employee calls, "B-47!"

Mamdani stands. The entire room watches. He approaches the counter with the gravitas of a man walking toward his destiny, or at least toward a woman named Gladys who will determine if his vision is 20/20 or just pretty close.

"You have all your documents?" Gladys asks, unimpressed by democracy.

Mamdani produces a folder. Organized. Tabbed. Color-coded.

Cuomo mutters, "Of course he has a system."

Sliwa stage-whispers, "Kid probably has a system for breathing."

Mamdani completes his transaction in eleven minutes. As he walks out, he turns back to his rivals. "The system works if you come prepared."

It's the most punchable sentence ever uttered in the Midtown DMV.

Cuomo scoffs. "That's not a platform. That's a tote bag slogan."

"YOU LIVE IN A RENT-STABILIZED APARTMENT!" Sliwa shouts after him.

3:15 PM - CUOMO'S TURN

"C-93!"

Andrew Cuomo stands, straightens his tie (which he never loosened), and approaches the counter like he's about to negotiate a budget reconciliation.

"I was the governor," he informs the DMV employee.

"I need six points of ID," she responds.

"I. Was. The. Governor."

"Sir, do you have a utility bill?"

Twenty minutes later, Cuomo is sent back to his seat. Missing form. He has to get in line again.

Sliwa can barely contain himself. "You lost your own primary, and now you can't even beat the DMV!"

"This is why I'm running," Cuomo hisses. "The system is broken."

"You HAD twelve years to fix it!"

"I was focused on LARGER issues!"

"Like getting sued for sexual harassment?"

The entire waiting area goes quiet. Even Gladys looks up.

4:52 PM - SLIWA'S REDEMPTION

Curtis Sliwa is finally called. He stands slowly, like a boxer entering the ring, and walks to the counter.

He completes the entire process in seven minutes.

On his way out, he puts his red beret back on.

"I look very mayoral now," he announces to absolutely no one.

Cuomo is still sitting there, clutching his incomplete paperwork, staring at the number machine like it personally betrayed him.

EPILOGUE

Later that evening, all three candidates held separate press conferences about their DMV experience.

Mamdani called it "proof that when the system is fully funded and accessible, it works for everyone," which is easy to say when you showed up with a laminated folder and left before the afternoon rush. He also announced a new policy proposal about DMV reform that he'd workshopped in the Uber back to his rent-stabilized apartment in Astoria.

Cuomo blamed "structural inefficiencies inherited from previous administrations" and promised he would have fixed it if given four more hours.

Sliwa claimed he was "the clear winner" and that the DMV employee "definitely voted for him."

The DMV declined to comment.

Election Day is November 5th.

Bring two forms of ID.