Protecting my Identity

Yesterday, I went to try and figure out how to replace my driver's license. After following the phone recording, (If you are trying to get a new registration card, press 1. If you are trying to get a land permit, press 2. If you talking to a machine, press 3. [presses three] Thank you. You will be connected to somebody in India in approximately sixty-eight minutes. Please enjoy this horrible music by an obscure 80s band that should never be played,ever, while you wait), I finally figured out that I needed some money.
      The bank I use is very customer service oriented. I had applied to a job there before and we had rehearsed doing transactions for the interview. As far as I can tell, I don't think I got the job because I lacked a double X chromosome. The very attractive teller nodded me over. "Hi! Welcome to [bank name omitted to prevent riots]. How can I help you?"
"Yes, I'd like to cash this check. I don't have a driver's license. I need the money to get one."
"Oh... okay... one second..." She then begins to tap every key on her keyboard.
      We are now in a game of interrogation. One wrong answer, and I will have to talk to a five star general, or worse, A MANAGER!
      "Your date of birth?" "May 12, 1987."
      "Your mother's maiden name?" "Jones."
      "The name of your favorite childhood pet." "Obi."
      "The name of the greatest dictator of the French revolution?"
      "Before or after the 'Reign of Terror'."
      "After." 
       I squint, "Um... Bonaparte?"
      The teller shakes her head, making her beautiful blonde bounce. "TELLER ASSISTANCE!" she screams, never losing eye contact with me.
      "Oh no..." I think. I think of all the instruments of torture they will use on me: Water torture, the chair, FINGERPRINTING.... 
      A very professional looking effeminate man came over, "Hi.... how are you?" he does not wait for an answer, nor does he make eye contact. He merely stares at the computer and slams down the keys, then back into my soul.
      He looks at me, then back at the screen, then at my social security card and two other forms of ID, "Um... where is your driver's license?"
     "I am here to get money for a replacement license."
A belabored sigh falls out of his lungs. Like a child who was just told to share by his mother, he responds, "Okay... FINE... cash his check...." (as he walked away, I think the name "stupidface" exited his lips).
      With a pocket full of cash, I head down to the Mesquite Market, which I found is a local grocery with a MVD station inside. I walk in, wearing a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt (which I am later told is a bad choice to wear in this area). I walk over to the station. The woman behind the desk is very obviously flirting with a man twice her age and size on the other side of the counter. She immediately looks up and says, "YES..." [nervous cough] "I can help you right here."
      "I'm here for a replacement ID."
      "Oh... you can't do that here. You have to the other one across town. And you need two proofs of residency, a Swiss bank account, a contract signing over your first born, and $60."
      "Oh man... now where am I going to get $60? What do you think I am, made of money?"