Luckily, I’m Not in Jail

So, today my baby left me.

Well, not really. She left to go visit her family, which is a considerably less dramatic explanation, but still. My baby left me, and I'm sitting here missing the fuck out of her.

She's driving across the country in her new-to-her Dodge Challenger, a car we bought down in El Paso. It's a salvage title, which meant we had some work to do before we could get it registered and legal here in New Mexico. We finally got all that shit taken care of, and since she was getting ready to leave, I figured I'd run down to MVD Express, transfer the title, get the plates, and send her on her way.

Simple, right?

Oh, you sweet summer child.

I waited forty-five fucking minutes before they finally called my name. Forty-five minutes of sitting there, waiting for the privilege of paying the state to allow us to legally operate a vehicle we'd already fucking purchased.

When I finally got to the counter, I handed the woman my paperwork and explained what I needed. Title transfer, registration, plates. The usual shit. She started going through everything, and then informed me that the seller had forgotten to sign one of the blocks on the bill of sale.

Okay. Except he'd signed the bill of sale somewhere else. And he'd signed the fucking title. And I'd signed the title. And the car was sitting right outside, available for inspection, complete with a VIN that matched the paperwork.

I pointed all of that out.

Didn't matter.

She couldn't register the car because that one little box didn't have a signature in it.

And that's when I saw fucking red.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I asked her whether I was required to transfer the title to New Mexico and register the car before legally driving it. She confirmed that, yes, I absolutely was.

“Then I'd like to fucking do that.”

Nope. Couldn't be done. Missing signature.

“So you're going to let bureaucracy get in the way of legality? I have the fucking car right outside. I have the title right fucking here. The seller signed the title. I signed the title. I bought the car with cash. What the fuck else do you need?”

Apparently, that one signature.

And yes, by this point I was screaming. I know. Not nice. Probably not my finest moment. But I was so fucking tired of being told that something perfectly reasonable couldn't be accomplished because somebody hadn't checked the right fucking box.

I finally asked her, as calmly as I could manage, which admittedly wasn't very fucking calmly, “Are you seriously telling me that I have to drive all the way back to El Paso to get somebody to sign one fucking box on a piece of paper, even though he's already signed the title and the bill of sale?”

Apparently, yes.

The state requires me to make the vehicle legal, but the state's contractor couldn't figure out how to let me make the vehicle legal.

Fucking brilliant.

So I left.

And I drove across town to another MVD office, another business contracted by the same fucking state to perform the same fucking services.

And wouldn't you know it?

Night and fucking day.

I explained the situation, handed over the paperwork, and these people somehow managed to accomplish the impossible. They figured it out. They did the VIN inspection. They transferred the title. They registered the car.

And I walked out with fucking license plates.

Same car. Same paperwork. Same state. Different people.

Apparently, the difference between a bureaucratic impossibility and a perfectly routine transaction is which fucking counter you happen to walk up to.

By the time I got home, I was still pissed. Not because I hadn't accomplished what I set out to do, because I had. But because I'd just wasted a significant chunk of my day fighting with somebody over something another office managed to resolve without any fucking drama.

But whatever. Mission accomplished. Dawna had plates.

We put the plate on the Challenger while she finished loading everything for her trip. I wanted to make sure she had some cash with her, so I suggested we head over to the gas station. She could fill up the car while I hit the ATM, and then we'd say our goodbyes and she'd get on the road.

I decided to ride Aurora over there, because why the fuck wouldn't I? Beautiful day, motorcycle sitting there, short ride across town. Dawna followed in her Challenger.

And that's when the day decided I apparently hadn't had enough opportunities to lose my fucking temper.

I'm riding along, keeping an eye on Dawna in my rearview mirror, when I notice some douchebag riding her ass.

And I mean RIDING her fucking ass.

This asshole was so close to her rear bumper that I was getting pissed just watching it. She's driving a car she just got registered, getting ready to head across the country, and this fuckhead apparently thinks the appropriate following distance is measured in fucking inches.

So I moved into the left lane, intending to wave him off her ass.

And the instant I did, this motherfucker decided to pass her.

Right into the space I was occupying.

He damn near fucking ran me over.

And there it was again.

Red.

Pure, unadulterated, fucking red.

Now, Aurora isn't exactly a slow motorcycle. She's a Harley-Davidson Breakout, and when I twist that throttle, things happen. So I caught up with the little prick in short order, pulled alongside his window, and gave him a very enthusiastic one-finger assessment of his driving skills.

And I'll admit something.

I was ready to beat his fucking ass.

I'm not going to dress that up or pretend I was calmly evaluating the situation. I was furious. I'd already spent part of my day screaming at a bureaucrat, and now some asshole had nearly hit me while driving like a complete fucking moron around my wife.

I was not in a particularly forgiving mood.

The little punk pulled over like he wanted to have a conversation about it.

Fine.

You want to pull over? I'll fucking pull over.

Except the moment I did, he took off.

Of course he did.

Everybody's a fucking tough guy from inside the safety of their shitty little car. They'll tailgate, cut people off, nearly run over motorcyclists, and act like they own the goddamned road. But apparently the enthusiasm for confrontation diminishes considerably when there's a possibility of having to continue the discussion face-to-face.

Pansy-ass maggot.

I could have gone after him. Aurora was more than capable of catching whatever piece of shit he was driving. But I didn't.

I let him go.

Partly because Dawna was still behind me, and I needed to wait for her. We still had to get to the gas station, get her some cash, and send her on her way.

And partly because, if I'm being perfectly fucking serious, it's probably a good thing that asshole drove away.

I was carrying around enough residual MVD rage to power a small city, and he'd just done something incredibly stupid around the woman I love.

There's something about watching somebody endanger your wife that reaches down into a part of you that doesn't give a flying fuck about reason, consequences, or whether your day is about to get considerably worse.

I know Dawna can take care of herself. That's not the point. She's a grown woman, perfectly capable of handling her own shit.

But I love her.

And when I see somebody putting her in danger, my first instinct isn't to consider whether that person might be having a bad day.

My first instinct is considerably less diplomatic.

Fortunately for everyone involved, the little prick drove away, I waited for Dawna, and we continued on to the gas station.

She filled up the Challenger. I got her some cash. We said our goodbyes, and she headed off across the country to visit her family.

Which, you may recall, was the entire fucking point of the day.

Get the car legal. Get her ready. Get her on the road.

That was it.

Instead, I got forty-five minutes in a waiting room, a screaming match over a missing signature, a cross-town trip to prove the first office was full of shit, and a near-altercation with some jackass who apparently learned to drive by watching bumper cars.

But the Challenger is registered. Dawna has her plates. She's on the road, heading toward the people she loves, and I'm back home, missing the fuck out of her.

And perhaps most importantly, I didn't end the day in handcuffs.

So I suppose we can call that a success.

Luckily, I'm not in jail.