Number 24 Keeps his Mouth Shut

by Pa Rock

Senior in a Warm Spell

Yesterday was beautiful, absolutely gorgeous.  When Alexa woke me before daylight, she announced that the temperature outside was already in the mid-fifties, and during the day it would likely reach the mid-eighties.   That's not too shabby for late February with several weeks yet to go before spring officially arrives.  

I've had jonquils blooming for two weeks, and the narcissus are just a couple of days away from showing their own blossoms.

I spent yesterday morning in front of the computer, like I always do, banging out some thoughts for the blog.  As I watched the birds at the feeders being blown off of their perches by the warm, gusty spring breezes, I typed a posting about people who set themselves on fire and burn to death as a form of social protest.  Then, when that obligation was complete, I decided to capitalize on the beautiful day by doing something entirely for me - and I grabbed a few supporting documents and headed off to the local DMV to get my driver's license renewed!

Ah, spring!

The DMV was crowded, like it always is, but they have a system set up where customers "take a number" from a dispenser when they enter the building.   I headed straight to where the little ticket dispenser had stood on a counter for the past several years, and was panicked to discover that it was no longer where it belonged.   Finally a good Samaratan (Number 23) who was sitting next to the door, directed me to the ticket dispenser's new location and I pulled out ticket Number 24.  The counter on the wall said that Number 15 was currently being served, so I found a comfy spot out of the way and began concentrating on clearing the spam from my phone.

"Sixteen."  Great, we were starting to move!

I have the unique ability to entertain myself in group settings without bothering others, but unfortunately that does not seem to be a skill shared by the people who tend to congregate around me.   As I sat there trying to do my own thing, I kept being drawn toward the conversation of two old coots sitting further down the row.  Both of the men were there for driver's license renewals, just like me, and one was busy describing to the other a piece of land and an old house that he owned in a community that is about seventy-five miles away from West Plains, the place where the discussion was occurring.

As the man got into his spiel I quickly realized that although I did not recognize him, the land and house that he was describing were familiar to me.  I had heard that same long-winded description given in the very same office at some point in the past.  Perhaps he and I had both been there on the same day three years earlier when we had our drivers' licenses renewed the last time!

I didn't hear the property owner give his age, but the listener, a well dressed man who was there with his wife, announced that he would be ninety-two in a few days - which means the he likely got his first license on just about the day I was born.

A couple of clerks finished their dealings with customers, and instead of calling new numbers, disappeared.  It was lunch time and the office which didn't close for lunch, nevertheless allowed its employees to eat.  Just my luck.

"Seventeen."  There went the man with the out-of-county property.  I focused on my phone with a vengeance out of fear that his 92-year-old buddy would turn on me for conversation.

"Eighteen."  The property owner had been sent out to secure another document, and his clerk was open for a new customer.

"Nineteen.  Twenty.  Twenty-one."  A worker had returned from lunch and the first two numbers he called had apparently given up and left.  I had cleared my in-box and messages, and was working on emptying the spam and trash when things in the office suddenly began to get interesting.

"Twenty-two."

A very old and large man who had been holed-up in the most remote corner of the lobby slowly got to his feet, leaned on his lethal-looking cane, and said in a loud, yet solemn voice, "What happened to twelve?"

"Twelve?"  A young worker at the counter asked with more than a little trepidation in her voice.

"I'm number twelve and I'm still waiting on my turn."  The man was bald, but there was a small black storm cloud gathering above his head that resembled a toupee.

"Sir, we've already called twelve and nobody answered."

"No you didn't."  He did not look or sound like the type of person who would take "no" gracefully.  

There was undoubtedly a sign somewhere that said firearms weren't permitted inside of the DMV, but I hadn't seen it - and we were in Missouri - so I started looking for cover, but that proved to be unnecessary.  The lady who was dealing with the man had apparently been to an inservice training based on just this contingency, and she handled the matter expertly.  The clerk apologized and promised the individual that he would be the next served, and nobody down the food chain, including the usually problematic Number 24, offered any objections whatsoever.

And thirty minutes another clerk called my number, I yelled "bingo," and thirty minutes after that I was home and typing again.

Today it's colder, but I will still head out to cardiac rehab in an hour or so dressed in gym shorts and a sweatshirt.  When you're my age, you live life with the throttle wide open!