Finding Miranda

CHAPTER 3: THE D.M.V.

An hour away from tiny Minokee, the bigger town of Live Oak steamed like broccoli in a microwave: green, limp, wet, hot, and fragrant. Summer was an infant according to the calendar, but the time-and-temperature sign outside the bank said baby had grown up fast. At barely nine in the morning it was already over ninety degrees in the shade.

Of course, no shade existed (and, for the moment, no air conditioning either) inside the cramped local office of the Division of Motor Vehicles. Miranda Ogilvy might have endured the heat better than most, with her skinny physique and sleeveless cotton sundress, but she was sandwiched between a buxom big-haired Hot Mama and a barrel-bellied, sweat-stained Good Ol' Boy. After languishing in the stagnant line of bodies for nearly an hour, Miranda's toes had been crushed by the platform heels of Hot Mama four times. Her heels had been bruised by the sharp-toed cowboy boots of G.O.B. three times. Neither neighbor seemed aware of Miranda, though she was pillowed between them like a slipped disc in a miserable spinal column.

Silently Miranda forgave her heavy-footed line-mates; it wasn't their fault. Nobody ever noticed Miranda.

"Next!" bleated an agent whose red face glistened between lank bangs and wrinkled shirt collar. Hot Mama peeled her backside off the front of Miranda's sundress, lifted her platform heels off Miranda's numb toes, and shuffled to the counter.

Oblivious to Miranda's presence, the crowd of humanity behind her surged forward, led by G.O.B.'s pointy shit-kickers. Miranda advanced two quick steps to avoid being trampled. Now at the front of the line, she luxuriated in breathing deeply since no one was plastered against her front from toes to sternum.

Two yards down the counter to the right, the previous customer departed, and Miranda leaped like a gazelle into the vacant spot.

"Next!" an empty-eyed public servant bellowed directly into Miranda's face. The woman was shorter and wider than Miranda and actually leaned to look around Miranda for the next victim.

"I'm here," Miranda said with a smile and a timid wave.

The official started and then focused on the front of Miranda's sundress. "How can I help you?"

Miranda pushed an envelope and her driver's license across the counter. "I need to change the address on my license, please."

"You can do that by mail or on-line, y'know." The tone of voice said, It's lunkheads like you who cause long lines on hellish days like this!

"I tried," said Miranda sweetly. "They said I need a new picture taken." She eased her driver's license an inch closer to the official, who looked down at it and frowned.

"Where's your face?"

"Right there in that rectangle, see?"

"That's not your face, it's the back of your head! You can't have the back of your head on your driver's license!" She angled her shoulders as if to talk over her shoulder, though she continued shouting directly into Miranda's nose. "Freddie, they can't have the back of their head on their driver's license picture, right?"

The shoulders squared up toward Miranda once more. "You gotta have your face in the picture, honey." Her eyes said, What are you trying to pull, sister?

"I know. They tried and tried. That's the best we could get. I'm sorry. I just don't photograph well," said Miranda. I'm a sincere, law-abiding citizen, really, truly I am, and it's not my fault your air conditioner is broken and it's two hundred degrees in here.

The squatty official pursed her lips, glared at the driver's license, scowled at Miranda's collarbone—nobody ever looked Miranda in the face—and after several deep breaths said, "You got proof of the new address? Power bill, phone bill, water bill, mail addressed to you?"

"My first power bill," Miranda said, sliding the envelope farther across the counter.

The official squinted at the address on the correspondence.

"Minokee? Does anybody still live in Minokee?" Then, over the shoulder again, "Freddie, is folks still livin' in Minokee?" Then, to Miranda, "You really moved to Minokee?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure did."

"From where?"

"Miami."

A satisfied nod at Miranda's bodice buttons. Explains a lot, said the eyes. "Step over there in front of the blue screen," the official ordered.

Miranda wove her way across the room to stand in front of the screen and face the digital camera.

Minutes passed. Miranda's official approached the camera from the other side of the counter, carrying Miranda's papers, then stood looking about the room. "Ogilvy!" she shrieked. "Miriam Ogilvy!"

From three feet in front of the camera Miranda waved and smiled. "Right here. It's Miranda. Miranda Ogilvy."

"Whatever," said the official. "Look right here." She tapped a spot on the front of the camera. With her other hand she swatted at a fly trying to roost on the camera lens.

The fly buzzed straight at Miranda's face, Miranda reacted instinctively, and the result was a high-tech digital photograph of the top of Miranda's head with her two hands flailing above it like moose antlers.

"Crap," said the official when the new license rolled out of the laminator. She showed the moose photo to Miranda.

"It's better than the old one," Miranda said encouragingly.

The harried official looked at the photo and at the melting masses still waiting in the long, long, long line of customers.

"You're right," she said, handing Miranda the new license together with the supporting papers. "Have a nice day."

"Thank—" Miranda almost said.

"Next!" the woman blared as if nobody was standing right in front of her.

I guess nobody is, thought Miranda and murmured a "Thank you" that nobody heard.