If I had to name places I can't stand to be, top on the list would probably be hospitals and the DMV. I dislike the former because it usually means I'm unwell or somebody I know or love is unwell. In general, hospitals tend to remind me of my own mortality, which is something I try hard to avoid. The DMV also reminds me of death in that I begin to understand what purgatory must be like.

In DC, and I imagine quite a few other cities, being at the DMV also means that you get to meet and interact with dedicated, indeed monk-like, individuals who seem to have mastered the art of how not to smile. Also, and most people don't know this, but DMV workers are brilliant linguists, with a subtle and charming mastery of the words no and can't. Oh, how it's almost like music listening to them speak.

But enough revelry at my joyous good fortune. I shall not gloat that I got to spend my entire afternoon at the DMV today among these enchanting wordsmiths.

It all started with a letter. The letter said I had not paid a parking violation and that the fine was being escalated to the next bracket, $60, as a penalty for my delinquency. "I don't remember getting a ticket," I thought. "Maybe Catherine got one and forgot to tell me." I tend to speak out loud to myself when confronted with strange and disturbing news such as this. I called Catherine and, just as I had suspected, no tickets. The first thing I looked for was where the citation had been given - 19th and I street, NE, an area where Catherine and I have never even been. Then I noticed something else strange: the license plate was not our license plate. "Well, that takes care of that," I thought, "Not my car. Simple case of misunderstanding." But wait a minute, there was my name and address on the letter clear as day, next to this strange license plate number. Something was amiss. A nagging feeling in my gut told me this was not going to be easily rectified.

My first phone call was to "Adjudication Services," whose address and number are printed on the citation. I gave them the citation number and spoke to a pretty nice woman who told me some other interesting facts about my ticket: the police officer who wrote the ticket had described the car as a Saturn. "I knew something was wrong," I said. "I couldn't possibly drive a Saturn." I now noticed the word 'SATR' in all-caps on my ticket for the first time. Ah-ha! That's what that meant. But when the woman on the phone checked against the actual plate numbers, she found that they belonged to a Mercedes, not a Saturn. What was more disturbing, however, was that my name did come up in her database as being the owner of this Mercedes. "But I don't own a Mercedes," I told her. "I own a Volkswagen GTI." I gave her my actual plate numbers and she verified that, yes, I did indeed still own a Volkswagen GTI, which I was relieved to hear. But that did not change the fact that I also owned a Mercedes.

Overall the woman, whose name was Mary, seemed sincerely concerned and bewildered with my predicament. She gave me some instructions to follow. She told me I should write a letter to "Adjudication Services," explaining that I do not own this car and would they kindly relieve me of this terrible opprobrium (my own words). She also said I should contact the DMV as soon as possible to find out how my name had become attached to this car's registration. I hung up a bit confused, but optimistic overall. It was just a matter of a simple letter and a quick phone call. I would simply explain the misunderstanding to all parties and all would be well with the world. I don't know what kind of drug I was smoking this morning, but it wasn't long before I realized my folly and snapped back to reality. No, this was something that would most certainly take more than a couple of well-reasoned communications.

My next call was to the DMV. This person, named Ms. Robinson, was tremendously unhelpful and said this was not a DMV matter, but an adjudication matter. "But," I said, "they told me I had to look into the root of this problem with you guys." I can't remember exactly what she said, but whatever it was, it demonstrated great mastery of those two magic words, no and can't. "Okay, I will call adjudication services back," I said. I can't recall if I heard the click of the phone hanging up before I spoke the word 'back' or after, but the two sounds were pretty close in my mind.

I called "Adjudication Services" back and spoke to another pretty nice person who again demonstrated concern for the issue. I didn't know it was possible, but these folks really knew how to put the 'service' back into 'adjudication.' This woman set me straight. She made it clear that simply writing a letter to them was not going to resolve it. "No?" I said, innocently. "Well," she reasoned, "if you just send us the registration of the car you do own, who's to say you don't own more than one car?" Ah, here was a woman who knew her stuff, I thought. Our office has to have proof that you do not, in fact, own that car in question, and that can only be acquired from the DMV. It was then clear to me what my next steps had to be: I would have to venture to the DMV office. It gave me chills just thinking about it.

At the DMV, I waited an hour before my number was called. I was certain that they would run my report, and, of course, it would show that I only had one car. Then I would say 'Thank you very much' and be on my way with my evidence, my proof, that I was a proud Volkswagen owner, not a Mercedes or Saturn owner. But the report confirmed my worse fears to be true: I actually owned a 2002 Mercedes with an expired DC registration! Had this all happened in some alternate state of being? Had I slept? I started to wonder if I had been cast in some cruel reality-prank show and I looked for signs of my friends lingering in the corners ready to spring out and say, "You've been punked!" When I asked the woman how this could be, how I could own this car I'd never seen or heard of before, she fell back on her wits, using no and can't in a bewildering display of verbal cunning. I managed to retort that this time she wasn't going to fool me with her double-speak, I needed to get to the bottom of this. So she directed me to her supervisor.

The supervisor, to her credit, displayed a certain bit of compassion over the situation, but no more than was absolutely necessary. By now I was a bit dazed. I offered her the oddly-formatted document that showed I owned two cars and managed to utter the words, 'Not mine.' I think she felt a little sorry for me, and she told me to have a seat while she looked into it. I did as I was told. People came and went. I outlasted all the people that had been in the room when I arrived. I watched new people show up, their numbers were called, they stepped up to the counter, exchanged papers, and most left with happy little smiles on their faces. They had gotten their new driver's license, or parking permit, or whatever the fuck. Damn happy people with their known, tangible cars! They didn't know what it was like to have imaginary cars sprout up on their records, complete with their own parking tickets and, who knows, a trunk full of recently smuggled contraband drugs. Oh, these people were living a fairy tale and I hated them for it.

Another hour went by and there was no sign of my nice supervisor lady who had been kind enough to offer me a seat. I asked a security guard if she could help me find the nice lady, that I thought she must be lost, or I was lost, or both. The security guard must have known where to look. Soon after that, the supervisor emerged from the back room with news that she had contacted the office where the microfilm is stored and that they would be getting back to her, hopefully soon. She gave me her name and number and asked for mine and told me that she would call me when she learned anything. I tried to give voice to the many questions swirling in my mind. "Documents . . . there are . . . there must be . . . signatures . . . proof. . . evidence." I said. "Not at our office . . . NO HERE," she replied, shaking her head. "Mi-cro-film." She spoke in clear syllables to make sure I could understand her.

So now it's a waiting game. Hopefully I will find out soon whether I'm truly the proud owner of a 2002 Mercedes. If I could just make this elusive car materialize before me, I might be able to make some money off of it by simply paying the parking ticket and selling the car, along with the contraband drugs in the trunk!

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