Step Out of the Vehicle

“So you're asking for your third I.D in the past 18 months? Can you explain this?”

Apparently I am at high risk to recycle my drivers license for booze hungry children. Either that or I've been pegged as a terrorist. And yes, I may have an issue with misplaced identification.

“Well, you see I was on a Subway in New York City and my clutch got stolen...” I trailed off. The DMV attendant seemed disinterested in the irony of surviving eight months in Africa without getting robbed before this. Falling asleep on a 4am train headed to the Bronx less than 48-hours after arriving at JFK just tempted fate. I didn't tell the woman I was still more upset about losing my favourite lip gloss.

“What about your previous copy?”

“Oh...” It took me a minute to remember that on my 22nd birthday I lost my ID on the floor of a bar called the Ranch. Ten complementary drinks later and I barely knew who I was, let alone that I lost proof of it being my birthday. That had been a good picture and I regretted losing it.

“It got stolen in Edmonton,” I added to save face. One skeptical eyebrow raised. I would like to attribute this to the rarity that people who travel need new drivers licenses. I suspect she thought I needed to get my head examined.

I got the glamour shot in the end. It isn't half bad. A good I.D photo is always worth the shower and effort of putting on mascara. Bouncers aren't hot but cops sometimes are. If I lose this copy I may have to endure a “lengthy interview.” The woman, Brenda, looked at me severely and told me to report both lost I.Ds. “You never know when identity theft can happen,” she insisted.

I hope some underage punk commuter is raising martinis to me in Manhattan as we speak. I also hope that I won't have to visit Brenda again. If I do, I will I put on a little more bronzer. Nothing kills a good shot like sallow looking skin.