Royal pain in the patooties!

I'm talking about the infamous RMV, or Registry of Motor Vehicles, for those of you who have never encountered this model of inefficiency.  All I need is a license plate for my brand new car.  How hard can that be?

Nearly impossible, it turns out.  Silly unemployed me paid $35 extra for one of those vanity license plates.  You know, the ones that have your name or funny message instead of those random letters and numbers.  Plus another $35 so I could get one that comes with a cute picture of our official state tiger.  What a tiger has to do with the Eastern half of these United States is beyond me.  Perhaps they roamed wild here before my time.  Quite frankly, I don't know, and I don't care.  The tiger photo is amazingly cute, so I sent in my application for him and my vanity license plate:  COOLCAT.

Every day for the next three weeks I called the RMV to ask them when I could pick up my new plate.  Every day it was the same story.  "We don't know." 

Unfortunately, the RMV can't just hand out any old license you choose.  They have to do some investigating.  First, they have to see if anybody in your state already owns the same vanity license.  Then they have to make sure that your license doesn't contain an obscene message when you turn it upside down and hold a mirror to it. 

I don't know about you, but I don't often stand on my head and flash a mirror when I'm bombing down the highway at 55 miles per hour.  Maybe I need to experiment some more.

Finally, the RMV confirmed that my license plate had arrived.  Boy, do I feel relieved.  My temporary license plate expired weeks ago, and I've been taking the bus everywhere.  Which is a real bummer, because taking the bus involves a $15 taxi ride to the bus stop.  Fun, fun, fun when you're unemployed.

After waiting in line at the RMV for two hours, I was directed to another line.  Typical.  Three hours and three lines later, I finally found myself face to face with a manila envelope that said "Congratulations!  Here's the vanity plate you ordered."  Shaking from excitement (can you tell I don't get out much?), I pulled the license out of the envelope.  And there before me was a photograph of the official state bumble bee, and a plate that read BUZZOFF.

Two hours, four lines, and $40 later, I found somebody who promised to straighten out the mistake and get my corrected license plate to me within three days.

Three days and two weeks later, the RMV called to say that my license plate was ready.  This time I opted to do things the smart way.  Rather then spend an eternity waiting in line at the RMV, I decided to arrive three hours before the RMV opened.  That way I would be first in line. 

Three hours before the RMV opens means five in the morning.  For those of you who have never stood outside a government building at five in the morning, may I just state for the record that nothing could be more fun than standing by yourself at the crack of dawn and waving to all the weirdos who pass by.  I know for a fact that they're weirdos, because who else would be out and about at that hour?

The Grand Poo Bah of all the weirdos was this guy who asked me if I was waiting for Paul McCartney tickets.  Okay boys and girls, how many of you ever bought Macca tickets at the Registry of Motor Vehicles?  Mr. Weirdo looked like that fellow Booger from the Revenge of the Nerds movie.  You know, the one who has hair sticking out in all the wrong places and who smells like twelve-year-old socks.

When I get into situations like these, I always rely on advice from Mom.  In this instance, Mom would tell me to look him in the eye and lie.  Boldly.  So I did.

"Sorry, I'm here for Ringo," I told him.  "Paul goes on sale next week."  The disappointed Macca fan headed off into the dark where he could be weird in private.

It paid being early to the RMV.  Just as I had planned, I was the first in line - the correct line no less.  I only had to wait inside for 15 minutes while the RMV official took her coffee break.  Trust the RMV to allow their workers to take a coffee break before starting work.  Anyway, she handed me my license and I happily pulled the thing out of the envelope.  There it was.  A photograph of a clown with a plate that read AROUND. 

"Since when do we have an official state clown?"  I asked the RMV official.  She rolled her eyes at me, so I asked her a simpler question.  "Does this look like the tiger that I ordered?"

Two weeks later, I was back at the RMV.  Three hours before opening time, no less.  But guess what?  I wasn't the first in line!  You know why?  Because Mr. Weirdo was already standing by the front door.

"Hey, where do you think the best seats are for the Macca show?" he asked me.

"Front and center," I said with authority.  Say anything with authority and they'll believe you, that's what Mom always taught me.  You think I know what venue this weirdo is talking about?  What am I saying?  You think this guy is going to find Macca tickets at the RMV?

"Once they open the doors, where should I go?" the weirdo asked me.

"Ask for Rita the Meter Maid," I said with a perfectly straight face.  Heck, at least he'll find a ticket lady, although it won't be the kind that he's got in mind.

"How did you do getting the Ringo tix?"  Weirdo asked.

Double heck.  Mr. Sour Breath doesn't know when to BUZZOFF.  Maybe I should have presented him with that license plate.

"I landed a backstage pass," I said casually.

"Wow, cool!  I should have asked you to pick me up a set."

"Well, you could always check and see if there are any left," I suggested.

"Yeah, cool.  Thanks."

That was the longest three hours of my life.  Mr. Weirdo just wouldn't shut up.  Told me about every concert he attended in his entire life.  Nobody you'd want to hear about.  He's the first person I ever met who camped out for four days to hear The Troggs, and a full week to listen to The The.  Ask me if I can name one thing that either of these groups sang.  For that matter, ask me if I care.  All I want is my stupid license plate!  If I have to keep doing this taxi to the bus business, I'm going to need a bank loan.

Well, here we are, my new license plate.  A lovely photograph of the official state beetle, along with the word FANATIC.  Do I need this aggravation?  What's really sick is that I opted to buy the thing.  Not for me, mind you.  For Mr. Weirdo.  I figure it will be a nice consolation prize when he discovers that concert tickets sell out fast when you buy them at the RMV. 

Three weeks and one bank loan later, there I was at my favorite pre-dawn hangout.  I figured that I would bump into Mr. Weirdo again, so I had the beetle FANATIC license plate all ready to hand to him.  And here he is!

"Oh cool!" he said.  "I'll put this on my car when I go to the McCartney concert."

"Excuse me?"

"Front and center tickets, just like you recommended."

"What?"

"Just like you said.  I went in there and asked for Rita the Meter Maid.  They looked me up and down, then they pulled me out of line, put a blindfold over my eyes, and stuck me into an elevator.  After about half a mile of walking, I found myself in a dark room with this lady who was chewing a wad of gum the size of Chicago.  She asks me how many tickets I want and I buy them.  Got the backstage Ringo tickets too."

I made this awful choking sound that I never knew I could make. 

"Hey, maybe you want to go with me to the Macca show?  I'd ask you to see Ringo, too, but I know you got tickets for that one.  You've probably got a boyfriend already."

"I uh, I uh, I uh lost the Ringo tickets," I squeaked.  "And I never had time to get any for Macca."

"Cool," Mr. Weirdo said.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope.  "I was hoping you would say something like that.  Here's your tickets.  I'll meet you over at the arena."

I nodded, unable to get out one more word. 

Unfortunately, the shock lasted all the way up to the time I got my newest license plate.  Since I couldn't speak, I couldn't refuse the latest offering.  So, I just took the thing without even bothering to open it.

I got home, pulled the expired plate off my car, and removed the new plate from the envelope.  Still in shock from the Macca/Starr tickets, I didn't even bother checking out the new license, I just slapped it in place. 

Being a practical-minded sort of person, I did take the tickets out of the envelope.  They looked legit, but I phoned Ticketmaster just to make sure.  Yepper.  I had front row seats to Macca and Ringo, and backstage passes to each show.  "Oh, and bring an appetite when you go to the concert," the Ticketmaster lady told me.  "You're tickets are good for dinner with Sir Paul before the show."

Well, what can I say?  I've got a date with a weirdo.  Sadly, that's nothing new.

I didn't leave my house for two days while I tried to coordinate my clothing for the shows.  I decided that I desperately needed a haircut, so I popped into my car and drove to the mall.  After my appointment, I returned to the mall parking lot, and I saw this crowd staring at the back of my car.  Correction, they weren't just staring.  They were singing.  Then they were dancing.  Must have been a choir group or something because they all wore orange uniforms.  Cautiously, I stepped closer and pretended like it wasn't my car.

"Hare Krishna," they sang. "Hare Rama," they danced.

A couple of them threw flower petals onto the trunk, and one actually bowed down to my rear bumper!  Do I need this? 

Finally, I poked my head in between the dancers and checked out the license.  The tag simply read OM.  And the picture?  Why it was our official state Harrison, of course. 

I asked the Krishna dancers to leave, but they told me that there was no way that they would desert the reincarnation of their idol.  Did I hear that correctly?

"George Harrison was reincarnated as a Honda Accord?"  I asked one of the dancers.

"It's a V6," the dancer sniffed.  "Top of the line.  Obviously it's him."

I tried reasoning with the dancers, but how do you talk sense when you have to deal with that nonsense?  I ended up dragging a policeman over to my car.  After kissing my license plate, the cop called for back-up, and then I had a motorcade escort me out of the mall parking lot.  You can check it out on CNN tonight.  Can't wait until Mom sees the broadcast.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing back and forth in my living room.  Do I return the license plate, or do I keep it?  Well, I couldn't do anything about it at the moment.  Time to get ready for the Macca concert.

After I got dressed, I jumped into my car and I pulled into the arena parking lot.  Bummer!  The show was four hours away, and the lot was already full!  So, I turned my car around and was heading out, when the security guard came running and screaming after me.  Now what?

"So sorry," he apologized again and again.  "I didn't realize you were driving George.  Please, follow me.  I'll give you a spot right by the arena entrance."

Hmm.  Maybe I will keep this license plate. 

Even with the special treatment that the car brought me, I didn't really expect them to let me backstage for Macca.  I figured that at some point, somebody would accuse me of carrying a forged ticket and kick me out.

Correction.  There I was, backstage, seated at the main table.  Right next to my buddy, Mr. Weirdo.  One of these days I really should learn his name.  But before I had a chance to say hello, a beaming Sir Macca walked over to our table, gave Mr. Weirdo a huge hug and said "Hello mate, a pleasure to see you again.  Is that you driving George?"

It's a good thing that Sir Paul knows how to give mouth-to-mouth, because I would have died if the weirdo had given me the kiss of life.  On national television. 

Sir Paul's bringing me back from the dead would have made the lead story, except that a bigger news item came up at the same time.  You guessed it.  Those crazy CNN reporters were outside interviewing the George car.  One beep for yes, and two beeps for no.  The car alarm when he violently disagreed, and the car radio when he wanted to make a longer statement. 

Thank you, Mr. Harrison, for messing up all my preset stations.  Georgie and I argued about that all the way home.  The police pulled me over twice for driving with a blaring car alarm.  They let me go when I showed them the license plate.

George thinks I should go out on a real date with the weirdo.  I know that for a fact because when I mentioned Mr. Weirdo, George played "He's So Fine" on the radio.  Forty-two times.

Oh yeah, the Paul concert.  I wish I could tell you how great it was, but my head is still reeling from everything that happened this evening.  Plus I have to come up with the world's most incredible tall tale so I can keep Mom from going berserk.

You know, I probably shouldn't spill the beans, but I just can't help myself.  It's one of the few things I remember from tonight, other than waking up and seeing Sir Paul hovering over me.  Paul's going to make a surprise appearance at the Ringo show!  He and Ringo are going to sing "Baby You Can Drive My Car," and then you-know-who will make his grand entrance on stage. 

Guess who gets to sit in the driver's seat.

Guess who will have to fumigate her car because a certain Sir insisted that a certain Weirdo sit in a certain passenger seat.

Guess who's playing All You Need is Love on the radio.  Forty-two times in a row.

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.