At Least They're Committed

I checked the clock when I walked through the glass doors, two hours until I needed to be at my next appointment. That ought to be enough, right?

Ten people in the chairs on the right, three to the left. Not seeing the numbers dispenser despite the red-lit 505 on the overhead, I asked a turtle of a man sitting behind a desk, arms folded.

“What are you here for?” he asked stoically.

“I need to change my name on my driver’s license,” I said.

“Have you changed it with Social Security?” his voice was gruff.

“Yes.”

“How long ago?”

“Twenty-one years,” I said.

“Oh!” Turtle Man’s bushy gray eyebrows raised. “That ought to be OK then.”

Seems I need to use my married name to get my passport to be able to go on the cruise.

I was No. 517.

Sitting minute after minute after minute, the numbers clicked by slowly. A man came in after me, about my age, I noticed him noticing me as he entered and he got his number and plopped down to my left.

As I sat there, No. 517 firmly in grasp, of course you know where my mind went! Right. Beetlejuice. Clutching my number, eyes straight forward, I slowly turned my head toward the man at my left, looking at him but a moment and then slowly turning it back.

He got up and moved to a chair on far side of the room. I tried not to smile.

At last 517 was called! Actually, it had only taken about a half hour. Not bad for the driver’s license place. The delightful  lady behind the desk was indeed quite chatty and could not believe, NOT believe I was the same person as in my prior driver’s license photo.

“You look 20-years younger with your hair like it is now!!!!” she said, loudly. “Look at this photo of you,” she flipped it toward me as if I hadn’t seen it before. “You look like your mother!”

Honestly, I don’t look a thing like my mother, but yes, it was an unflattering photo of me. She nudged the woman beside her who was deep in the throes of a license reinstatement. “Doesn’t she look 20 years younger with her hair like it is now???” The woman grunted and, after a second nudge, said, “Well or she hasn’t aged.”

“I like your hair much better this way!”

“Thank you,” I said, embarrassed. “I’ve been growing it out for Locks of Love for the past five years. It’s taken longer than I thought, I should be able to cut it in a couple months.”

She gasped, sticking her right palm out vertical in front of me. I paused a sec, then realized, then high-fived her back.

The paperwork took a couple minutes is all, the photo station two seats down took less than that and the city worker hopped out of her chair, away from her next customer, to check out my new photo. “MUCH better!” she enthused. “At LEAST 20 years younger!”

I thanked her profusely and smiled. Turning and gathering my coat, the man in the chair in front of me mumbled something (I thought) to the special, beautiful young man seated with him, but when I glanced up, they were both looking at me. “Oh, what?”

He mumbled again, but I could not for the life of me understand him, so I took a step closer.

In a flash he leapt forward and wrapped his hands and his teeth around my throat, biting down hard!

Just joking! He was sweet and soft-spoken. He said again, “So they’re still mailing them to you?”

“OH! Yes,” says I. “So it seems.”

He mumbled again.

“Huh?”

“I’d hoped they’d gotten past that,” he said.

“Oh, yes, yes, me too!” I said smiling at the beautiful boy to the man’s right. “Oh well, you guys have a nice day!”

They said, “You, too” and I was outta there . . . in less than 40 minutes.

A very pleasant — albeit conspicuous — time at the driver’s license place! Who’d have thought? Maybe it’s what you make of things that matters.