Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
She’d meant to renew weeks ago, when the notice first arrived, but lateness was programmed into her psyche. Her license was now expired, and what with people getting stopped routinely and forced to show their IDs, she worried about driving with a permit no longer valid.
The room was subdued despite the crowd of fifty or so, with conversations kept muted. As a chime sounded at intervals, a steady stream of people rose from their chairs, made their way to the counter and conferred with the official on the other side of the plexiglass window. Six numbers lay ahead of Charla’s, with the clock ticking. She studied her expired license: Only four years had passed, but she grimaced at the image that stared back. The smile, tepid; her hair a mess, and that sweater, making her round face rounder.
“Those cameras are designed to make us look like criminals.” The man seated to her right was shaking his head, showing her his own license, which did indeed show a portrait that could have graced a wanted poster.
Charla, laughing, shoved hers back in her purse. “We’ll see what they capture of me today.” She checked her phone. “If they call my number before my break ends.” She’d missed doctors’ appointments, movie theater starts, and parties because she was always running late. Why couldn’t she ever be on time?
Her seatmate was soon off to the counter. The room slowly emptied, but Charla’s number still lagged, now behind two others. She had exactly five minutes left to complete the renewal. So much for lunch. Maybe Sam would let her sprint to the Wawa for a quick sandwich if things were slow at the dealership when she returned.
At last, she stood at the renewal counter and handed over her paperwork and old license.
“Waited a little too long, did we?” The clerk’s tone was kind despite the snark of his words.
“I kept meaning to get here,” Charla said, her face warming. “And then it was too late.”
The clerk checked her information on his computer screen. “It’s never too late.” He grinned. “The good news is that you’re not so late that you have to retake the written test.”
“I’d have to do that?” She was not prepared for any exam.
“Only if your license was more than six months overdue.” He directed her to sit back in the chair. “Ready for your picture?”
She patted down her frizzy hair and smiled half-heartedly at the camera. She should have primped in the bathroom before her number was called. Too late now.
Within ten minutes, she was done. Her photo caught her smile—and the wild patch of hair that always stuck up. Now fifteen minutes past her lunch break, she left the DMV lot and sped up the road.
Two blocks from the dealership, cars stacked up behind flashing police lights.
More delays. Sam’s annoyed face loomed in her mind. Was this the day she lost her job? Time was never her friend.
Turning onto a side street, she looped through an adjacent neighborhood to reach her workplace from the opposite direction. The Wawa store was on the way, so she stopped to buy a snack to get her through the afternoon—and early evening, to make up for the extra half hour she’d “borrowed.”
Traffic was backed up on this side of the wreck, but Charla cut through a parking lot to reach the dealership. She hustled to the door, feeling like the tortoise in the race against the hare of time. A fire truck pulled up to the wreckage, and sirens continued to blare.
Instead of an angry frown over her tardiness, Sam’s face showed only relief. Several salespeople joined him, and Charla was wrapped in a sudden cocoon of welcome.
“You’re safe,” Sam said. He stepped forward as if to hug her, but stopped when she backed up. “We were so afraid you got caught up in that mess.”
Charla’s shoulders relaxed. “I was running late…” As usual, she almost added.
For once, time had been on her side.
More of Dianna’s Stories
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Most of the seats at the DMV were filled when Charla arrived, license renewal form in hand, and she ended up taking an unoccupied plastic chair against the far wall. She had an hour and maybe a smidge more to get her new license before Sam started docking her pay for being late from her lunch break.
-
This is your last chance, people, to find the perfect gift! My perfect gift would be a medical miracle for my dad. He’s been unconscious for two weeks, since the car wreck on I-80. The doctors say he should recover—if he wakes up. But he’s pushing eighty. It may not happen.
That would make a good card theme, right? A get-well wish made for people whose loved one is in a coma. May they snap out of it. Or, how about: Wake up, sleepy Jean. But that’s my dark humor bubbling up. Damn it, now my eyes are blurry.
-
Thanksgiving was three days ago, and I’m still reeling at what I witnessed. My sister hosted, as she has for the last twenty years. That was the only thing predictable about the holiday, though. I was there, of course.
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At the chiming of eleven bells, the retreat’s evening session began. Squeezed around the table, six people scooted chairs until no one brushed up against anyone else. The room’s reddish glow came from a candelabra on a nearby shelf, and the air hung thick with cedar incense.
-
A crab shell on the riverbank marked the end of day. No crab inside, just the empty carapace and claws, bright objects against the darker sandy grit along the water. Jyr laid thin branches of hemlock around the shell, then watched the river current flickering where the setting sun touched the ripples.
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