By Jim Hagarty
2005
Go ahead and cry, while reading this column, if you feel you need to. I know I shed a few tears writing it.
I hate my birthday and not for the reason you might think, although the thrill of the years piling up is beginning to wear off. No, I can’t stand the occasion because that is the day the gods have selected for me to get the licence plates renewed on both of our family jalopies. This might not hurt if my birthday was in July, but it was last week, Jan. 20, to be exact. While George Bush was throwing a $40 million party for himself following his inauguration, I was down on my freezing knees in my driveway, trying to “affix” those nasty little licence stickers to my plates.
But the affixing part turned out to be the easy job; getting the stickers in the first place was the reason the joy of living sort of deserted me for a few hours last Thursday.
I knew it was coming. It always turns out badly, my going to the licence office just before closing time on my birthday to get the stickers I could have gotten weeks before when the notice came in. But even this one blindsided me.
First off, it took me an hour to find the blinkin’ form the government had sent me in December (Aren’t you glad I used blinkin’ and not the word I wanted to?). And then, when I tore it open, I was horrified to discover I needed a Drive Clean test (a pollution control thing in my part of Canada) done on one of the cars. Skimming the sheet quickly, I could see it was our ’95 Olds which is carrying just slightly less rust at the moment than the Titanic. So, I made a quick call to our friendly Drive Clean dealer. Yes, I could come in right away. This was good, as it was now 3 p.m. and the licence office closed at 5. Saved. Whew. That was close.
So, out to the shop I went, and sat in the nicely furnished waiting room while the old clunker was put on life support. I became absorbed in a magazine article on modern-day stress and what people are doing to relieve it. I was almost disappointed, in fact, when the service manager popped his head in to tell me the car was done. I would have liked to have found out all the latest techniques for calming down, but it was time to go.
The good news was, my car passed, somehow. I swiped my card – $37.45 – and grabbed my certificate of approval.
I was off to the licence plate place with a half hour to spare.
To background this, the licence place and I have had what you might call a dysfunctional relationship going back many, many years. The people there are nice and all, but I can’t remember when the last time was I just walked in, got it right, and walked out. But this time would be different.
I strolled in, went to a counter to fill in my form for our two cars, and got everything right. Insurance policy numbers, odometer readings – everything a bureaucrat in Toronto dreams about getting from me on my birthday.
Confidently, I strolled up to the counter and was greeted with a smile by a young woman behind it. I smiled back, laid down all my documents, and was most proud of my Drive Clean certificate. She took one look at everything, and her expression grew cloudy.
“Oh sir, you’ve Drive Cleaned the wrong car!” The next few segments of this tale have been edited out to enable this piece to continue with a family rating. Let’s just say, the moments that followed will not be remembered as my finest.
Who would have guessed that a three year-old Chevy that still smells pretty new to me, would need a Drive Clean test? Apparently, it did, and I wasn’t gettin’ a licence plate sticker till it had one.
Now, I might have been somewhat reconciled to the whole mess, if I’d thought that the test I had done on the wrong car, would be good tor 2006 when it actually will need to be done. But, apparently, it won’t be. I will have to do it again next year, even though cars need the test only once every two years. So, back to the friendly Drive Clean guy I went, with a different car this time. The only bright spot – and I usually try not to look for bright spots – was that I got to finish the magazine article on stress. I had all the symptoms; I will be able to implement exactly none of the suggestions.
Car’s done. Swipe. $37.45.
“Well, I’m fresh out of cars,” I told the service manager, “so l won’t be back. “But I’m sure if I had another one or two, l’d be seeing you again soon.”
That night, as my family brought me my birthday presents, I had a faraway look on my face as I thought back over my unhappy day at the Drive Cleaners. Both my cars don’t run any better than they ever have, but, the whole affair did Drive me nuts and my bank account is a lot Cleaner than it used to be.
