DMV, page 19
Jorge felt like screaming, felt like running away.
Continuing to lecture, Mr. Lane saw where he was looking, caught his eye, and smiled.
TWENTY
Todd received his new license on a Saturday.
Rosita was at work, so when he heard the mail drop through the slot, he went out to the entryway and picked it up.
On top was an envelope from the Department of Motor Vehicles.
He’d been waiting for this, and he tore it open, grateful that it had arrived before his old license expired. Several days earlier, he had tried calling the DMV help line to check on the status of his renewal. A recording informed him that his expected wait time was an hour, so he had input his number for a callback. Two hours later, the monotone male voice on the other end of the line told him, when asked, that his status was “in process.” He asked what he should do if he did not receive the new license by the expiration date on his old one, and the man said, “We can’t answer hypotheticals,” and hung up on him.
His new license was attached to cardstock backing by some sort of gummy adhesive, and he pulled it off to examine it. The style of the license had changed. Updated, he supposed. The photo was as bad as ever. He looked like a homeless guy, with beard stubble he did not recall having, and hair that looked wild and uncombed. The license number seemed more prominent than before, a different color, maybe, and he pulled out his wallet to compare the two.
Yes, the number was red instead of blue, and slightly larger than previously, but that was not the only change. The number on the new license was different.
Todd frowned. That was strange. What was even stranger was that the new number seemed more familiar to him than the old one. How was that possible?
He continued to stare at the card. He had never been one of those guys who knew his license number by heart. Anytime he needed to reference it or write it down on a form of some sort, he had to take his license out and look it up. But he actually recognized this new number, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out from where.
It would come to him, Todd assumed.
The odd thing was that the number consisted entirely of numerals, with no letters. His old license number had started with an N, which he was pretty sure indicated what type of license he’d been issued. But this one was just a number.
341579.
He suddenly knew why it was familiar to him.
It was the same number that had been tattooed on his great-grandmother at Auschwitz.
He felt chilled to the bone.
Heading straight over to the office closet where he kept family keepsakes, Todd pulled out one cardboard box after another until he reached one on which he had scrawled 1940-1960 in black marker. It was part of the family history that had been drilled into him throughout childhood, and he opened the box and dug through loose medals and ribbons, leather-bound diaries and brittle government certificates, until he found what he was looking for: a stack of photos held together by a rubber band that disintegrated when he touched it.
He began sorting through the pictures. He had not seen them in years, but they were all familiar to him. Going through the photos and recounting the family story had been an annual ritual growing up. He took the top photo of his grandmother as a little girl in New York and placed it on the bottom of the pile, followed by well-remembered shots of relatives standing in various configurations at weddings and funerals, or posed before new cars and new houses and vacation spots.
Finally, he found a picture of his great-grandmother Elsa staring unsmiling into the camera, and, following that, the photo he remembered so well, the one that had given him nightmares as a child: a closeup of the blue tattoo on his great-grandmother’s arm.
341579.
It was the same number.
He’d known that already, but seeing confirmation on the old woman’s flabby flesh caused his heart rate to increase. He experienced the same sense of dread that had come over him as a child when looking at the picture and listening to his grandmother’s horrifying account of her mother’s experience. It was a coincidence—
probably
—but that did not make being assigned the number any less upsetting. Todd looked from the photo of the tattooed number in his hand to the number on his license, which he’d placed on the top of his desk. Strange, he thought, how people who were up in arms, literally, about gun registration, afraid that the government would use that information to keep track of them, had no qualms about the DMV not only knowing their height, weight, hair and eye color, but assigning them a number by which they were identified.
Like 341579.
As of today, that was not just the number that the government of Nazi Germany had used to keep track of his great-grandmother, it was the number by which his own government would now keep track of him. If he wanted to cash a check, he would have to show that number. If he wanted to identify himself at the bank in order to withdraw funds, he would have to show that number. Every time he needed to show “valid ID,” for whatever purpose, he would have to use that number.
There had to be some way to get his license changed, and after putting everything back in the box and returning all of the boxes to the closet, Todd immediately logged onto the DMV website to see what options might be available to him. No mention was made anywhere on the page or on any of the sub-screens about modifying a license, but there was a 24-hour help desk to which he could submit questions, and he provided his name and email address, and wrote a message asking whether there was any way he could get a new license number.
Leaving the computer on, he went out to the kitchen, microwaved some pre-packaged Cajun rice and beans, poured himself some iced tea and watched CNN for a half-hour while he ate lunch.
Once back in his office, he switched over to his email, but an answer did not seem to be immediately forthcoming. There was, however, an email from Jim Briggs that had been sent earlier this morning. He hadn’t heard from the policeman in over a week. Jim had not responded to the two emails he’d sent, and Todd was surprised to hear from him now. He clicked on the message.
Todd,
Sorry for not responding sooner, I have forwarded your DMV questions to the appropriate department.
Hopefully, you’ll be hearing from someone soon. I can’t talk about work, but if you’d like to have a personal conversation, you can call me at 555-1630.
Todd frowned. It was a little disconcerting that Jim had forwarded his queries about Jorge to another department in the DMV…but then he thought that the offer to call and have a “personal conversation” might be a subtle way to get around department restrictions and talk off the record. Moments later, he called the number provided.
“Jim Briggs.”
“Jim! This is Todd Klein. I got your email—”
The policeman cut him off. “Watch the local news this afternoon. ABC was there for sure, and I think NBC was, too.”
“What are—?”
“Can’t talk. Gotta go.” The line went dead.
He sat there for a moment with the phone still held to his ear. What the hell was that about? Slowly, he put the phone down. Was it his imagination, or had Jim seemed nervous? Todd had the sense that he was supposed to be reading something between the lines, but he had no idea what that could be.
The doorbell rang, and he went out to see who was there. Opening the door, he found a man standing on the stoop, a muscular young man in white shirt and black pants who looked like a wrestler applying for a job at an accounting firm. “Yes?” Todd said.
The man stood there impassively. “I’m from the DMV. You put in a question to our help desk?”
Todd was taken aback. “And you were sent over to my house?”
“We aim to please.” He could not have said it more insincerely.
“You could’ve just emailed an answer to my question. Or called.”
“But instead I am here.”
This felt awkward. “So what do I need to do to change the number on my driver’s license? Is there a form I have to fill out, or do I have to go in to the office and talk to someone?”
The man stared flatly. “You are Three Four One Five Seven Nine.” He took a step forward, and there was something almost threatening about the movement, as though he intended to force his way into the house. Todd held tight to the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut if need be. It was unsettling that the man knew his license number off the top of his head.
“Here’s the thing,” Todd said. “That wasn’t my number until now. I had a completely different number, and for some reason, it was changed when I got my new license—”
“Yes. That is your new number.”
“But I don’t want that number. If I can’t have my old one, I want a new one. What do I have to do to get it changed?”
“You cannot change it. You are Three Four One Five Seven Nine.”
Todd didn’t like the way he said that. It sounded like an order, like something his great-grandmother would have heard.
It was time to stand up for himself.
“First of all, it’s a ridiculous waste of taxpayer money for you to drive over to my house to answer a few questions you could have easily answered over the phone, or that could have been sent to me in an email. Secondly, there has to be a way for me to get that number changed. It is a very offensive number to me and my family. If I can get my phone number changed or be assigned a new credit card number, I can certainly get a new driver’s license number.”
The man gave him a slight smile. “And you have.”
“I mean other than the one you guys gave me.”
“You have been provided a unique and randomly assigned number. That number identifies you within our system. It is impossible to change it now. When your license comes up for renewal in four years, then you can petition to have a new one assigned to you. Until then, you are Three Four One Five Seven Nine.”
Anger coursed through him. “You’re, what, from the help desk? What is your name? And who is your supervisor? I’m going to call whoever’s above you, explain the situation to him or her and get this whole damn thing straightened out.”
The man leaned forward. “My name is Fuck Your Mama, and my supervisor’s name is And Your Daddy Too.”
Todd slammed the door on him.
The man chuckled. “Glad I could be of service, Three Four One Five Seven Nine! Email the help desk if you have any other questions! We’re available twenty-four hours a day!”
Todd was so angry, he didn’t know what to do. He did email the help desk, as well as an address for “Other Questions, Complaints or Concerns,” and spent the next few hours on the phone with various computerized voices and outsourced call centers trying to connect with someone in authority at the DMV. He talked to underlings, left messages but never actually spoke to anyone with the power to make a decision. Frustrated, he fired off emails to the governor, the head of the state Transportation department, his congressman and state senator.
Finally, tired and burnt out, he shut off his computer. It was after five already. He remembered what Jim Briggs had said about the news, and turned on the television moments before Rosita arrived home. The newscast was already switching from the weatherman to sports, so he had to wait for the top stories to be repeated on the half-hour. While waiting, he showed Rosita his new license, told her about the Nazi number and the guy who’d come to their house, and explained how he’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find someone in charge.
She shook her head in disbelief. “What a nightmare.”
“Kafkaesque,” he acknowledged.
She held her hand out for the driver’s license again, examining it. “That’s really your grandmother’s number?”
“Great-grandmother. I put away the picture, but I should’ve kept it out.”
“You can show me later.” She handed back the card. “So do you think it’s a coincidence or what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“With Jorge and your test… We’ve kind of been stirring things up over there. You think they could’ve done it on purpose?”
“I don’t see how they would even know.”
“It depends what kind of records they have on us.”
From the television came the triumphal/martial music that announced the next half-hour of the local ABC newscast. “Breaking news,” said the anchor, and Todd turned his attention to the screen.
It was the top story.
He’d had no idea what Jim was referring to when he asked him to watch the news, so it was something of a shock to discover that earlier today eight people had been killed in a suspected arson fire at a building in the arts district, and that while two of the victims had not yet been identified, the other six were confirmed to be former employees of the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Footage of firefighters putting out the blaze was replaced by assorted family snapshots of the victims.
One was the man who had helped tutor him for the DMV test, the man he knew only as Number One. Another was his other tutor, the woman with the missing finger, Number Two.
“It is unknown why the former coworkers were in the empty building,” the anchor said. “Investigators are still searching for a motive. In other news…”
Todd looked at Rosita. He wanted to call Jim Briggs but was suddenly afraid to do so. If the people who were responsible for the fire—
the DMV
—were willing and able to kill eight people, they were certainly capable of tapping Jim’s phone.
He understood now why the policeman had sounded so nervous.
Even more concerning was the fact that this wasn’t the work of one person or even a small gang of individuals. It was an organization, an entire system. How could anyone fight against that? He felt dispirited and overwhelmed, impotent.
“Were those people—?” Rosita began.
“The ones who tutored me for the test,” he finished for her.
They faced each other, silent for a moment.
“Do you think…?” She didn’t complete the sentence, but she didn’t have to.
Todd nodded.
“What does that mean for Jorge?”
He had no idea, neither of them did, but the possibilities seemed a lot more sinister than they had before. He thought of his great-grandmother’s tattoo and the number on his driver’s license.
“What are we going to do?” Rosita asked.
He had no answer for that, either.
On the television, the newscast switched to a commercial for auto insurance.
TWENTY ONE
They confiscated the Honda in the middle of the night.
Danny awoke in the morning to find his mom in her bathrobe, frantic, standing on the front porch with Mr. Lee, asking him if anyone in his family had seen anything.
“I just woke up, went out to get the paper, and it wasn’t in the driveway. Could’ve happened anytime. Anytime after seven. That’s when I came back with the pizza last night. None of us went outside after that, and the drapes were all closed.”
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“I didn’t,” Mr. Lee assured her. “Maybe Rhonda did. Or the kids. I could ask them.”
His mom shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I know what happened. When doesn’t make any difference.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault. Thank you for letting us use your driveway. But I have to go check on…” Still in her slippers and bathrobe, she ran next door, across the lawn, without finishing her sentence.
Danny and Mr. Lee smiled awkwardly at each other, then Mr. Lee turned to leave, and Danny closed the door.
His mom returned a few minutes later from Mrs. Burkholder’s, to report that the Kia was still safely in her garage. Danny could hear the relief in her voice. “I’m going down to the police station and see what I can do about this. Make yourself breakfast. When Jill wakes up, you tell her she has to stay home. She came back after midnight last night, after I told her she had to be in by ten, so you let her know that I need to talk to her.”
“Maybe you should call the police,” Danny suggested.
“And get put on hold or connected to some moron? I’m talking to them in person.” She hurried off down the hall and returned quicker than Danny would have thought possible wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sandals. Her hair was still wild, and she had on no makeup, but the keys to the Kia were jingling in her hand. “I’ll be back,” she said, and left.
He made himself cinnamon toast and ate in the kitchen, staring out at the side yard, trying to imagine what had happened to the Accord. They’d probably come around one or two, when they could be pretty sure that everyone in the neighborhood was asleep. Had they stopped by this house first, discovered that the car wasn’t here and then snooped around the street until they found it, or had the scoped things out earlier in the day and just made a quick surgical strike? How many people had they sent out to retrieve it? In his mind, he saw two black suited Ninjas leaping out of an unmarked van, one using some type of tool to jimmy the Honda’s door, the other popping open the hood and doing something to start the car, both of them hopping in and taking off.
He wondered if the car had been there when Jill’s date had dropped her off, although she probably wouldn’t have noticed one way or the other.
Danny finished eating breakfast, took a shower and dressed, but Jill hadn’t awakened and his mom hadn’t returned by the time he got out. He hoped his mother would get back before his sister woke up, so he wouldn’t have to relay the message to her. The phone rang, and he ran to the living room to pick it up before she was roused from her sleep. “Hello?” he said quietly.
