A New Driver’s License
I must be losing my mind, at least the few shreds of sanity that still remain locked up inside the old melon. As I put the puppy into his crate I quoted Point Break. Like Special Agent Utah telling Bodhi that he has to go down I tell the pup that it has got to be this way.
He looks up at me with dark, soulful eyes that accuse me of doing him wrong. I lock the crate and smile, offer reassuring words and walk away. I have to head off to the fabulous Department of Motor Vehicles to renew my driver’s license.
My current license is set to expire in a few more days. Unless I decide to accept this next task, come this Sunday the license will self destruct just like one of those tapes on Mission Impossible. Can’t let that happen, can’t drive around the City of Angels with an expired license, so I have to head out.
I tell the pup that I want to stay and play with him. I’d much rather run around the house pretending that I am ten and not some guy in his early forties. But I can’t and since I can’t trust him yet not to engage in a search and destroy operation he can’t roam the house.
It is hard to believe that it has been a decade since the last renewal. The last few renewals were done via mail so the state has mandated that I make an appearance, a little cameo at the DMV. I don’t know how long this will take so I gear up for the trip over. Into my pockets go the BlackBerry and the iPod, I wanted to make an appointment but the website that says that nothing is available until May of 2025.
I am not sure, but I think that the maniacal laughter I hear isn’t coming from the computer but from my own lips. Into the depths I shall go, like the Fellowship of the Ring entering Moria so shall I enter the hallowed halls of a government agency. What lies in wait I know not, but I dread the trip.
In spite of suffering through a bad hair day I shall allow them to take my picture. A new mugshot of yours truly that shall serve as official identification. Will I smile or glare. Should I pretend to be sad, happy or angry? I don’t know.
All I know is that I hate the thought of being stuck in the bowels of hell that the workers call the DMV. How long shall I be forced to wait, how long must I endure such torture. That remains to be seen.
But old Jack is nothing if not a fighter, a survivor of a variety of experiences. As I once promised that wacky Shmata Queen: I shall return.
And with that my friends I bid you adieu, I find comfort in a quote and ride off to battle:
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