A Lifetime at the DMV – Hour Three

The male computer voice droned out “B-136, Window 13,” and Bill let out a loud sigh. I patted his leg sympathetically. “Well, at least we’re within 10 numbers,” I said, glancing at my application form and the identification stub with the number B-145 imprinted on it. Our seat mate, Mr. Handyman, glanced at his form and the number B-148 stared back.

“Not bad,” he said. “Only three after you guys.”

“Wanna trade?” asked the young black guy sitting next to number B-148.

“What’s your number?” Bill asked.

“153,” he muttered dejectedly. “I’m gonna get old sittin’ round here.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied. “By the time you leave you’ll be old enough to come and live in Sun City.”

“And spend my time going to state sales?” he asked, absently adjusting his colorful Rasta beanie. “No ma’am, I don’t think so.”

“Estate,” I said, correcting him. “Estate sale.”

“Okay, so I give up, what is it?”

“An estate sale? Well, it’s when you get rid everything in a house that’s left over from someone’s estate.”

“Oh, they do that in my hood all the time,” he said with a crooked grin. “Except it’s called a felony.”



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