I suggested, gently and with great charm, that this was the Department of Motor Vehicles and I had no other option than to get a license plate from them. Seven-Eleven, I said, didn't have a motorcycle license plate aisle. I may have mentioned that the Post Office more often than not had stamps. And, while Hertz didn't always have cars, Delta Airlines almost always had planes.
She, in that frontal-lobe-less way that bureaucrats adopt over the years, just repeated that they didn't have any plates.
I asked if, as my old plate was sitting on the counter right in front of her, whether she could just enter that as the new plate number and let me just take that one back. Sort of like fooling the office computer system by re-entering the same password as the one which the system has told you has just expired.
She looked at me. Blinked. And said, "Oh. Yeah, sure. I can do that."
This … this is why I am paid the big bucks.
Have a good weekend.
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