Department of hell on wheels

Well, that was it. Fuck them and fuck you, California. I drove on my New York driver's license and never got pulled over.

And a lot of cool shit happened. I've written you about most of it. Met Clint Eastwood. Partied at Penny Marshall's. And all that time no one knew I was livin' on the edge. No one knew I was just a few short steps away from the big house. But you know what? No one would have cared. They're all my friends. They don't judge me. Unlike the state of California, they accept me with my New York driver's license. I never have to get a renewal with my friends. No one says, "Sorry, Dave, you can't come into the party until I see your letter of clearance from New Jersey."

But all good things must come to an end, especially when the DMV is involved. My New York license was due to expire on March 12, 2000 -- I couldn't blow it off anymore. So I buckled down, gathered my various sheaves of paperwork and went lookin' for a fight.

But then something magical happened. I handed the woman my license and she said, "Twelve dollars, please."

What's this? I couldn't speak. I wanted to cry. But I didn't want her to wonder why I was so happy in case that would prompt an investigation. So I calmly wrote her a check for 12 clams, passed the written test and strolled my happy ass out the door.

WOOOOOO!! You cannot imagine the weight that had been lifted. I was so relieved I didn't have to have it out yet again with the Man. But what had happened? Could it be that the evil cock Goodman born on my birthday had gotten his life together and paid the lousy $50 to reinstate his New Jersey driving privileges? I guess so.

(That's right. I could have paid the $50 and been done with this whole mess. But you know what? That would have meant they won. And I was never going to let them win.)

So it was off to lovely Europe to celebrate while the DMV witches waved their craggy wands over the lamination machine and made my California driver's license come true.

But then something else magical happened. Witchy magic. I returned from Europe to a letter containing this exact sentence: "We regret to inform you that the state(s) listed below have reported that your driving privilege is suspended or revoked in their state. As a result, we are unable to issue your driver's license." Now, bear in mind, California already had my New York license and had given me a flimsy piece of paper with a barely discernible photocopy of my face in return. It was due to expire at the end of April.

It looked like the DMV was going to have the last laugh. They let me get all excited only to screw me all the harder. I was livid. I was ready to throw myself down and do the time.

Fortunately, it didn't come to that. The woman I explained the story to took some pity on me, actually looked at my paperwork, saw the discrepancy and said to me, "You need a letter of clearance from New Jersey."

The counters at the DMV are quite wide, but I felt myself nimble enough to get over it and my hands around her throat with enough time left over to make it worthwhile.

"But," she said, "you just told me you tried to get a letter of clearance twice before from New Jersey and they were no help, right?"

"Right."

"Let me see what I can do for you." A princess. A goddess, this woman.

What she did was get me the phone number of the California problem driver pointer system (916-657-8849, in case you ever need it). That was the best she could do, she said. It was so much more than anyone else had done that I nearly dampened her desk with my tears.

Well, one phone call later and everything was fine. My new driver's license was on the way. Why so easy? Well, despite my repeatedly asking every cranky, unfriendly, unwilling soul, "Are you sure?" and "Can you double-check?" they all overlooked one small fact: The criminal David Goodman in New Jersey has a different middle name.

Love,

David.

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