That’s the Ticket: Interlude


I am not happy about this.

A couple of things before getting to part two:

• I forgot one instance of being pulled over, probably because I blocked it from my memory due to all the emotional trauma. (The subconscious is clever like that.)

It was the summer of 2002 and I drove up to Maine with my then girlfriend to meet her parents for the first time. The second night there, my ex and I were driving back from her friend’s house when I was pulled over on a small, backwoods street. The officer made me do a sobriety test, and while I had no trouble touching various parts of my body and walking straight (I’d been doing it for years), I did stumble a bit on the backwards alphabet, though in fairness to me the helpful song doesn’t work in reverse. (My joke of, “I was an English major, I should know this,” probably didn’t help either.)

After that, he took me into the front seat of his patrol car and closed the doors. I sat there for a few minutes staring straight ahead while he wrote something down in a pad.

Officer: “So you’re from New York.”
Me: “Yes.”
Officer: “What are you doing in Maine?”
Me: “Meeting my girlfriend’s parents for the first time.”
Officer: (long, low whistle) “They’re not going to like this story, are they.”
Me: “No.”
Officer: “I remember the first time I met me wife’s parents. They hated me. All her daddy wanted to do was drink beer and watch sports, but I was a hunter. I liked the wilderness. So I married her anyway.”
Me: (internally) If he gives me a five-minute head start, I think I can lose him in the woods. The girl will slow me down; I’ll have to leave her behind, which is a shame because things were going so well.
Officer: “Are you going to speed in Maine anymore?”
Me: “No.”
Officer: “Okay. Go on now.”

He didn’t even give me a ticket, and to this day my ex still believes that I performed a sex act on him in that car. All in all, it was an experience almost as traumatic as . . .

• . . . getting my Florida drivers license yesterday. While the sadness of becoming an official Florida resident became all the more real, surprisingly the actual process at the DMV was painless. They even let you make an appointment in advance, as though you’re seeing a doctor or getting a haircut. And while I was being helped by The Standard Older Gentleman Who Has Trouble Working The New Technology (he typed with his middle finger, it was adorable), the entertainment was provided by The Standard Older Gentleman Who Is Actually a Douche being helped at the counter next to me. He was carrying a briefcase and wearing a red polo shirt tucked into khaki pants with a matching red cardigan draped over his shoulders presumably in case he got cold, or a tennis match broke out.

Woman: “May I help you?”
Guy: (plops briefcase down on counter) “John C. Smith! I have an appointment!”
Woman: “What can I d-”
Guy: “I’m a movie producer from Los Angeles! I recently moved to Fisher Island. We’re filming a movie here in Mia-“
Woman: “Are you renewing a license?”
Guy: “No, I live on Fisher Island and need to drive to the movie set to che-”
Woman: “So you need a new license?
Guy: “Yes.”

Here it’s important to note that Fisher Island has the highest-income per capita in America, and can be reached only by private ferry or helicopter. It’s also important to note that of course this guy’s name isn’t John C. Smith, meaning he used an alias for an appointment AT THE DMV.

The douchery went on for a solid fifteen minutes as he made a big scene out of not having all the documents he needed to obtain a license, though this didn’t stop him from pulling cards out of his wallet saying, “Can I use my bank card from Fisher Island? Or my American Express? Or my access card to the club at Fisher Island?”

Your fucking access card to the club?! What are you backing it up with, your membership certificate from The Cabbage Patch Kid adoption agency?

Needless to say, I hated this guy. I hated him so much that I came home and immediately tried to find him online. I searched through all the movies currently being filmed in Miami. There’s only three: Immigration Tango, The Bait, and D4.

Immigration Tango doesn’t even have an IMDb page and The Bait is produced by a guy named Dariusz Zawiślak – clearly not out d-bag. Then there’s D4, which I can’t find out much about except that it doesn’t stand for The Mighty Ducks 4 (sadly). If anyone has an IMDb Pro account, let me know so I can stalk this guy further. Everyone needs a mission in life, and now that Obama seems to have America under control mine is to find out this guy’s real identity and sully his good name with Photoshop, or perhaps a forged fan letter to Miley Cyrus.

In the meantime, the woman helping him at the DMV got started with a burn of her own.

Guy: “Fine, I’ll make another appointment and come back next Wednesday.”
Woman: “I’ll remember you.”

Touché, douché!

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