Serious Zen

Life is a strange little bird. And, strangely, the feeling continues to grow. Here’s a case in point: I am headed to Seattle at the end of May for a conference, and after the conference is over, the plan is to rent a car and do a bit of traveling throughout the Pacific Northwest, including a short stint in Vancouver. Of course, crossing into Canada, and, more importantly, returning from Canada, requires a passport. Simple enough. Or so I thought.

Since the trip is right around the corner, I figured it was probably time that I remedied the whole passport problem. So, on Friday (April 18th), I made my way to the local post office. Passport lines can be long, but thankfully the place was as empty. The application only took a few minutes to fill out, the photography session went off without a hitch, and before I knew it the woman taking care of me was dotting the proverbial i’s and t’s. This is when it all started: “Excuse me, did you know your license is expired?” Um, no, I didn’t. How was I supposed to know that I had been driving with an expired license for the past five months?

Needless to say, I was a little frustrated at this point. Not only could I not get a passport, I had to drive, illegally of course, 6000 miles to the “nearest” DMV. But, whatever. No big deal. No big thing. However, as I was leaving the post office, it occurred to me that I may have missed an emissions test on the car I was driving. Oops! To be certain, I called the local EPA office. Sure enough, I missed it, and, oh, by the way, it turned out the plates on my car were also expired. Who knew that emissions testing and plate registration go hand in hand. Not me! So, to review, I had an expired license, expired plates, and a vehicle that hadn’t passed an emissions test. I should not be on the road. God, I’m an idiot. And apparently a felon.

Being the upstanding citizen that I am, I assumed that it was probably best to take care of all of this stuff immediately. And why not? I just had to take a highly illegal sojourn to the DMV, obtain a temporary registration card so I can legally have the emissions on the car tested, illegally drive to the emissions testing center (a solid 10 miles from the DMV), and then take another illegal drive back to the DMV to renew my license and registration. Of course I got lost. Of course I produced a series of expletives that would have made Eddie Murphy cringe. Of course I managed to see more cops on the road than I normally would in an entire year. Of course, of course.

After routing and rerouting, a number of anxiety-ridden phone calls to my wife, and just generally being pissed off, I finally made it to the DMV, thankfully unscathed. What’s more, I managed to get in and out in a matter of 10 minutes, an unheard of feat for a place that unquestionably deserves a spot in one of the first rings of hell.

Freedom at last! As Saturday morning arrived, it was time to head back to the post office for another shot at border crossing. And, man, it felt good to get there in legal fashion. After a quick pit stop for coffee, I reached the post office and pulled into the same spot I got on Friday. Nice! Or, maybe not. As I entered, I discovered the passport line was as long as my list of the previous day’s offenses. I decided to wait. The plan, all along, had been to expedite the process, so going on Monday was not an issue. Well, it wouldn’t be an issue if I had a license.

As it turns out, John Lennon was right: Instant karma is going to get you. Or at least it got me.

On Saturday afternoon, my wife and I decided to take a trip to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, a mere 45 minutes from our home. It’s an easy drive. In fact, it’s a nice drive. As we left the house, I decided to take a long and admittedly circuitous route. This, in retrospect, was the first blunder. It took us almost 35 minutes to reach a spot that would normally have taken about 20. But, oh well. As I said, it was a nice day. After another 15 minutes or so, we were near the Wisconsin border and seamlessly transitioned into a small and mostly sleepy little town called Hebron. Okay, so seamlessly isn’t the right word, as the flashing lights in my rearview mirror clearly suggested.

At this point, of course, I was baffled. Why was I being pulled over? I wasn’t speeding. In fact, I had just noticed a speed limit sign and made an effort to slow down. Rudimentary procedure followed. My license (my new license!) and insurance card were handed over, followed by an obvious question: “Can I ask why I’m being pulled over?” Of course I could. I was speeding. As it goes, I apparently missed the first of two speed limit signs on the way into town. More procedure followed, including a debate with my wife about whether or not I would be issued a ticket. I was still convinced I wasn’t really speeding, so the thought of a ticket seemed outside the realm of possibility. When the police officer finally returned, with my citation in hand, he offered the following proclamation: “I just can’t let this one go.” Of course he couldn’t. He had no choice in the matter. He was just following orders. It was not like he could take into consideration the fact that I have never had a speeding ticket, the little Eichmann.

As he pulled off, I was tempted to say something I would later regret, but it suddenly occurred to me that there was a larger irony on the horizon. Not only did I get a speeding ticket, but my license was confiscated as bond, and therefore I was once again in passport limbo. What’s more, my wife proceeded to clue me in to an interesting point noted on the back of the ticket: “You must mail this completed form, with all fines and costs, no earlier than Ten (10) work days after the ticket was issued…” Ouch! At minimum, a passport takes two weeks to process, and ten working days from April 18th would be…Houston, we have a problem.

Calls ensued. Police chiefs were asked after. And, finally, instructions were given: “Call on Monday morning, after 7:30am, and ask for the chief. We should be able to work something out.”

It is now Sunday at 7:00pm, and I’m still not convinced that something will, in fact, be worked out. It seems clear that there’s a cosmic conspiracy to keep me within the borders of the contiguous U.S. But I guess we’ll see. For now, I’ve got the passport blues, and a newly restored antipathy for men in blue.