To acquire the artifact of my current depression, shown above, I had to spend two hours and forty minutes yesterday, diligently working and waiting. My Kansas license expired last November, and when my headlight fizzled out, I figured it was about time I got legal. Two months later, that’s what I did.
Because my knowledge of the road hasn’t been tested since I was 16, Kansas law rightly requires me to take a new test before I renew. Missouri, however, has a different approach. It went sort of like this, “Can you read?” Yes. “What’s this?” Well, that’s a stop sign. “Twenty dollars.”
Before she took my picture, she asked for my old Kansas license. She looked at it, and then put it in a drawer. I asked if I could have it back. “No.” It was expired, I re-explained, it was no good to her. She asked why I wanted it back.
“I’ll use it back home.”
“But I thought you said it was expired. It’s no use back home.”
“Well, but you don’t understand, I can’t get into a bar without it.”
“You’ll have your new ID.”
“But it’s from Missouri.”
“So?”
“We Kansans, we hate you people. They’ll think I’m…”
Our protagonist realizes he’s played a shaky move, he pauses, hopes she understands.
“Step in front of the blue screen and smile.”
My favorite part was toward the end. She asked for the money. I asked if they took credit and got another no. But she was cute and my age-ish, and we had been throwing one another nice glances the entire time I waited. She worked for the State, and they sold a lot of licenses. So what the hell, “How bout you just give it to me?” I gave her an honest grin without a wink so it would feel real and unmanufactured. “How bout No,” she said, staring forward. Missouri.