A Licentious Week
I got home from my week on the road Sunday night. At almost every waystation on the trail last week that wound from Seattle to Minneapolis to Milwaukee to Detroit to Toledo and back, I was admonished by gate agents, airport club receptionists, car rental clerks and bank employees that my driver’s license was soon to expire. Which it does, on Friday. If you’re a betting person, you’ll run to your bookie and bet against my getting to the DMV and renewing on time.
The irony in this is that about this time last year, someone misread my license and warned me that it was due to expire. I took them at their word. After a week of foot-dragging and brinksmanship, I headed to the DMV, took a number and waited fitfully in their germ-laden confines. When my number was finally called, the woman at the window gave me a puzzled look and, though not very good with English, managed to convey that I was a year early and, no, they couldn’t issue a new license anyway.
Although I could play hard-to-get, let them know that they had a shot and blew it, it’s probably wiser to get dressed and head over there again. Sometime in the next 48 hours.
