Birthday 51 snuck up on me for a lot of familiar reasons. I had no birthday story in the oven until a week ago when inspiration struck me, courtesy of a morning at the DMV. Hope you enjoy…

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I’ll never understand why pointless memories stick to the brain better than more useful ones. I would trade my memory of all the Bullwinkle cartoons I watched as a kid for the ability to remember where I parked my truck at the grocery store.

A snippet from a song I heard thirty-five years ago turns in my mind: “Californians leavin’ would really make my day.” Mocking words, to the tune of that old hippie song, California Dreamin’. That’s what I hear via the miracle of my own internal stereo system, as I donate a portion of my few remaining years to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

The place is different than it was eight years ago. The fancy computer screens, advising you of how much longer you’re likely to wait, that’s new. And the people, they’re different too. More Californians; that’s what I see. There are two in the room, plus a couple maybes. The young fella sitting across from me, he’s one for sure. He carries all the signs: baggy cut offs, white sneakers, no socks, sun-bleached button up shirt (in the down position) atop a vintage Chili Peppers t-shirt. Not to mention the perma-tan he will carry all his days, like a scarlet letter in the eyes of us Montana natives.

A chime and a robotic feminine voice over the intercom: “Now serving…Terrence Michaelson, at…Window…Two.”
The robot voice is another addition since the last time I was here. I don’t waste time wondering at this, as it’s my name that was called, and I need to get moving before the young lady at Window Two thinks I’m a ghost and bumps me to the back of the line. I’m no ghost, not yet.

My walking cane and the seat in front of me are adequate to get me moving and I’m there, ready to have my license renewed by a smiling gal named Julianne.
She glances at the date on my expiring license, says, “Good morning and…happy birthday.”

I thank her kindly and try not to appear uncomfortable as I struggle to stand straight without leaning on the counter. Julianne makes small talk; I nod in appreciation. I almost miss it when she gestures at the ball cap I wear and thanks me for my service. 43rd Bombardment Group the cap says, a memento from my time as a strategic bomber mechanic. There’s a memory or two from back then I could do without.

When Julianne asks whether I’d like to make my license renewal four years or eight, I sigh. Even if I’m alive in eight years, there’s a zero percent chance I’ll have the patience to hobble in here another time. God knows, this place will be crawling with Californians by then.

I renew for four. After fumbling with my wallet and their new style credit card machine, I’m on my way with what ought to be my final driver’s license. The exit door presents an obstacle. It opens to a narrow stairwell that doesn’t provide much room to maneuver with my cane. Before I can formulate a plan, the fella from earlier—he with the baggy shorts and perma-tan—pops up, jogs to the door, and opens it for me. As I pass him by, he thanks me for my service.
Perhaps I was wrong about that young man. Maybe he’s not from California after all.