New Bike Day
June 24, 2006
Severe thunder showers and flash floods would be great for a parade of real mermaids. Still, since Deborah isn't a real mermaid and was only planning to pretend for the day, the forecast has scared her off, and she's decided to join me on my drive to Massachusetts today instead. She wasn't keen on taking the subway to Coney Island all alone in costume, anyway.
Eight hours all alone in a van can be pretty dull, and if it rains as predicted, the drive will be even more dreary, so I'll be happy to have her company. But I feel bad that after all her costume preparations, she's going to miss the parade.
"Maybe you can dress up in your costume another day, and we'll take pictures. A parade of one."
"Okay."
June 25, 2006
A quick check of Flickr shows that the Mermaid Day Parade went on as scheduled with little interference from the weather. Apparently, the severe thunder showers decided to leave the parade alone and follow Deborah and me up and down the eastern coast of New England, instead.
Despite the weather, we made it to the suburban town north of Boston at the expected time. I took the bike for a spin, gave the guy a check, signed a couple of things, and the motorcycle was officially mine. The guy I bought it from is a Math teacher at an alternative high school, and his girlfriend works for an environmental agency. At least that's what they used to do. They're moving, along with their two dogs, to Minneapolis so the girl can go to grad school, and the guy can—well—look for work, I guess.
The Math teacher had only owned the bike for about two years, but as he showed me the quirks to getting it started, he admitted that he'd grown quite attached. With his second kick, the bike cleared its throat and roared awake. "I'm gonna miss riding this thing," he said, twisting the throttle a few times.
When I pulled into the driveway with a massive grin on my face after my short cruise around the neighborhood, I asked the girl if she was going to miss the bike, too. "No," she said. "To be perfectly honest, I'm glad he's selling it."
The windshield wipers of the rental van did little more than smudge the rain across the glass, reducing the view ahead to a bluish white fog sprinkled with the glow of fuzzy red taillights. We counted five accidents along the way — including one with a burning car that had crashed into some trees at the bottom of an embankment. A few cop cars, a fire truck, and flares funneled the traffic into a single-file crawl. A surfer-dude with long, sandy hair and sandals stood in a daze at the roadside staring at the charred, soggy wreckage while a cop held a clipboard and jotted things down. I assume the surfer had been the driver, but if so, it was hard to imagine how he had survived the crash.
"This weather is dangerous," said Deborah. "Be careful."
"I know," I said, picturing the bike that was now strapped tightly in the cargo hold getting wrecked before I'd had a chance to enjoy it. When the rain became a solid wall of water, we pulled over. We pulled over quite a bit, actually. To use the bathroom, have a snack, have dinner, and then use the bathroom again. Since I was getting charged by the mile for the van rental, I stuck to the easy-on, easy-off rest areas. I kept seeing the same people repeatedly. A six-foot-six bodybuilder in a tight black tank top whose skin was shiny and orange was easy to recognize. "There's the muscleman again."
Our final pit stop came at nine o'clock. We stocked up on crappy snacks, climbed in the van, and began the final push home.
"Cheetos have a million ingredients," said Deborah as she read from the back of a half-eaten bag. Then she picked up an unopened bag of Fritos and read its ingredients as well. "Fritos only have corn, corn oil, and salt. That's it."
"Sounds like health food," I said.
"We need to eat some vegetables this week."
June 28, 2006
A new vehicle means a trip to the DMV, but I hesitate to write about it — the DMV is a well-worn joke — but whatever. He we go:
There were fifty people in a loosely organized line outside the office waiting for the doors to open. I walked around the corner to the line's end and became number fifty-one. "Is this the line for the DMV?" asked a businessman.
"Yup."
With a disgruntled sigh, he slipped in line behind me.
At eight thirty, the doors opened, and everyone shuffled into the lobby and down a long hall to the "DMV Express Elevator." A man took count and pinched off the line in groups of ten — roughly equal to, but probably slightly over, the elevator's capacity. It took the elevator four trips before it was my turn to ride. What had been the line's order went all to shit, and everyone spilled out on the eighth floor in a brand new arrangement. People who had been in front were now near the back, and vice versa. No one complained very much. Surprisingly.
Once inside, everyone received a number and either stood at a counter to fill in forms or sat in one of the pews, watching the big board and waiting for their number to be called.
A guy asked to borrow my pen. I watched as he filled out some forms, then slipped the pen in his pocket and walked to the other side of the room. I followed him. "Oh," he said. "Sorry."
Twenty minutes later, my number was called.
"Sir, there are two sides to every form: a front and a back. Just like your body. And just because you don't have to fill out the back, doesn't mean you don't need to print it."
I had saved time by downloading all the necessary forms from the DMV website and filling them out ahead of time. There was a page on the main registration application that didn't pertain to me, so I didn't include it. Apparently, this was a major fuck up worthy of being spoken to like a kindergarten kid.
She plucked out another form from my pile — something called an Odometer and Damage Disclosure Statement. "Sir, this form is for newer vehicles only. You don't need this. Your bike is too old." She tossed the page at me without looking up and repeated herself in case I didn't understand. "That form is for bikes eight years old or newer. Yours is too old, you don't need that."
"I see," I said.
She initialed some of my papers with a red pen, stamped others with a large rubber stamp, ran my credit card, and then attempted to staple some documents together with an industrial-sized electric stapler. It didn't work. She shoved the paper into the stapler's mouth several times, in and out, in and out. The worker next to her said something like, "That's not working again?"
Finally, the stapler clicked. "Oh, it works," the woman said. "It works just like the people in the DMV. You know that." Took the words right out of my mouth.
The woman left for a minute to retrieve a license plate from a back room somewhere. "Okay," she said when she returned. "This is your license plate. And this little yellow sticker here is your registration. I'm going to put this sticker on the plate in this little box right here that says 'sticker' because that's where it goes."
It seemed apparent, but then again, I'd already done a few things wrong.
She handed me the plate and a few pieces of paper. "Okay, sir. You're all set. Have a nice day."
On my way out, a guy asked if I had a pen he could borrow.
"Sorry," I shrugged.
