Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

Anti-Terrorism 101

I finally got the Certificate of Title for the Big Chief motor scooter yesterday. I went to the Bureau of Motor Vehicles to get the scooter registered and get the license plate. Oh, glorious legality! I would be finished with my surreptitious night riding, be done avoiding the main routes, and be able to finally clean the lamp-black off my face and head, but continue to wonder why we chose to live in a community without back alleys.

Safely in the BMV office before 4:30, I had my Certificate of Title, my operator's license, a check made out to the BMV for the fee, and my "tak-a-ticket" with the number "09" printed on it. I sat down next to an older woman who held number "01," a Certificate of Title to a Buick, and an Ohio EPA certificate with a column of 10 or 12 "OK's" on it. I pegged her at about 70 with her hair dyed jet-black. The left arm of an even older man, 80 or so, had stretched around her back, his red, scaly-skinned hand grasping her left breast. He was saying "Yeah, baby!" every time she said something to him.

One of the counter people, who may or may not have had a body below chest level, called out, "Number 92," whereupon old Mr. Grabby Hands called out, "Yeah, baby! Almost there!"

I offered my seat to a woman who had walked in and taken a ticket from the red dispenser. She accepted; and I walked over to the left side of the large crowded room, where a slight kid sat next to his more substantial father. Despite the disparity in size, they had identical noses. The kid wore a black t-shirt with "The Who" printed above and "Maximum R & B" printed below a wind-milling Pete Townshend. His dad wore a white t-shirt saying he partied at some bar at Put-in-Bay. At least one of them knew the score.

At about 20 to 5, a woman called out, "Oh nine." I sprang to the counter and said I needed to register my new motor scooter. She wasn't nearly as excited as I thought she could have been. She said, "Driver's license, please" rather tersely. I turned it over to her. "Original Social Security card," she then said.

"You're joking."

"No."

"Really. You must be kidding."

"No. Do you have your Social Security card? I need your original Social Security card."

"I don't mean to argue with you about what you need and don't need from me, but a Social Security card says that it is not a form of identification. Why do you need it?"

"Your driver's license doesn't have your Social Security number on it."

"Ohio law gives me the option to leave my Social Security number off my license, and the Attorney General recommends that you not have the number on your license. I did obviously adequately identify myself to get my driver's license, including supplying my Social Security number. My license isn't good enough to verify that I'm the guy with the title?" I was very polite. I was not showing my anger. I thought right then that my group of Monday night nut cases would be very impressed. It is no wonder people go berserk in government offices like this one. I added," I know my Social Security number. I'll give it to you."

"I need to verify your identity." She was insistent. She was not smiling. Her right hand disappearing from my view meant her index finger was poised, applying oh-so-slight pressure on the trigger of a double-barreled shotgun, under the counter, pointed right at my midsection. But verifying my identity had nothing to do with an original Social Security card that was almost 40 years old.

"I thought that's why our pictures are on our drivers' licenses. You know, foe-toe-eye-deeeee." I opened my wallet. "Would you accept my Costco card? It's got my picture on it. Or my Sam's Club ... well, uuhhh ... no, that was taken when I was fat ... that's no good. How about my Supreme Court of Ohio registration card ... that one is hard to come by. No photo, but who would make fake Supreme Court registration cards?"

"I could take a medical insurance card with your Soesch on it," she said, right hand returning to the counter top. She was smiling now, almost trying to be helpful, but knowing that she had won.

"They aren't allowed to do that any more ... use your Social Security number. It's my wife's anyway," I pointed out.

"Sorry. And it doesn't look like you can make it back before five. I really am sorry." She held out my hard-earned Certificate of Title and my Social Security number-less driver's license. I snatched them away from her. She wasn't sorry, let alone really sorry.

I kicked the door open on the way out. Homeland Security will swoop down on me for that stunt, not the kicking-the door-open stunt, but the transparent attempt to fraudulently obtain a license plate for my 49.5 cc, 3.5 hp Big Chief motor scooter from China that will get 80 miles per gallon of gasoline. After all, if I were to start riding it, my fuel consumption would go down. Others might join me. Profits of ExxonMobil, BP, Shell would decrease substantially, ruining the economy, of course. And then I would be called before the House Un-American Activities Committee to testify.

Conservation? In the Bush-Cheney lexicon, it is an obscenity.

I will get my license plate. I have my original Social Security card that is almost 40 years old with my little kid signature on it.. I've been practicing the signature, just like I used to practice. it when I was 10 for when I.had to sign autographs. Who knew?

I will be ready when my number is called; and the woman behind the counter, left eyebrow raised, upper lip quivering in a sneer, demands, "Papieren, bitte? Haben Sie Ihren Papieren?"

Yes, ... I ... will ... be ... ready.

Posted by Bill at September 17, 2005 02:40 AM