It's Only The Photo I Dread

It’s four years again; time for the trip down Main Street to the Motor Vehicle Dept. and get my driver’s license renewed. The wait’s a little longer this time around, they say.

I have time this afternoon, so maybe I’ll bring a book with me, or perhaps a pillow. Hey, how about some dark glasses and a white cane? I bet that would really freak them. “Are you blind, sir?” “Well, I wasn’t last time and there is no test to renew, so just sign me up.” “Did you drive down here?” “Yeah; I remembered the way.”

I think I’ll take my high school photo with me and have them scan it into the license. That’s when I looked my best; life has not been that good to me, apparently, because one of my old friends from 1964 didn’t recognize me when we met a few years ago. Not even when I introduced myself.

Maybe I’ll practice in front of a mirror tomorrow. Various smiles, happy faces, scowls, mean faces. If a cop pulls me over, I want him to know he is dealing with one bad mean-face dude. But one of my intrigued happy-smile faces might cause him to let me off. Maybe a quizzical face, as in, “Did I do something wrong, officer?”

When I show my license and cruise ship i.d. card returning to the ship, I tell them the photo was taken when I was much older. Some get it right away, some have to stop and think; I’m afraid others never catch on. “Why look at my photo, when you can look at me? See me? That’s me. Ok?”