DMV, page 5
“Thank God,” he said. “I thought I’d never get out of that.”
“He’s still God’s gift to everything?”
“Apparently so.” They walked back into the house. Todd put the phone back in its cradle while Rosita set her squash in the sink to wash. “You know,” he said, “Target, Wal-Mart and The Store are all supposed to be carrying my new book. Want to go out with me and check? It’s our last chance to do something fun together.”
“It’s not that fun,” she pointed out.
“Sure it is. We can move the book to the number one spot on the racks, make sure it’s at eye-level and facing outward, all the usual stuff.”
She gave him a noncommittal stare.
“Come on! Monkeywrenching corporate edicts? Fighting the man? You love it.”
“Maybe we can also go out to lunch?”
“Sure, sure.”
“I don’t actually have anything planned, despite what you wanted Robinson to believe.”
“I said sure.”
“A real restaurant, too. Not Taco Bell or In ‘n’ Out or any of your usual haunts.”
“The book’s out and we are going to celebrate,” he assured her. “Your pick.”
She smiled. “It’s a date. Just give me a few minutes to change.”
****
Their favorite restaurant, a small Italian bistro with only three indoor tables and two outdoor tables, had never reopened after the pandemic, so Rosita chose one of her other preferred eateries, a modern Southwest establishment with the goofy name Agave!. Any restaurant with an exclamation point was automatically suspect in his book, and the atmosphere of the place was decidedly kitschy, but Todd had to admit that the food was good.
They were peacefully eating, Rosita talking about how she was both dreading and looking forward to going back to work, when an older man with a pointed goatee and wearing a vest stepped up to their table. “Mr. Klein?” he asked politely.
Todd glanced up at him. “Yes?”
“I recognized you from your dust jacket cover. I’m a big fan.”
To say that Todd did not get recognized in public very often was an understatement. In the decade plus that he had been a published author, only one other time had a reader known who he was, and that reader, an older woman, had set off alarm bells by asking detailed personal questions about his marriage and his relationship with Rosita immediately after introducing herself. It was why he had always been happy to remain somewhat anonymous. He wanted his work to be known—but not himself.
So it was with some trepidation that he gave the goateed man a small civil smile. “Thank you.”
He was hoping the man would go away, but rather than say, “It was nice to meet you,” and take his leave, the man stood there.
He wanted something.
The man cleared his throat. “My name’s Winston, Winston Rackley. I host a podcast—”
Here it comes.
“—and I was wondering if you’d be willing to come on and discuss your new novel. Which I love, by the way.”
Todd was automatically about to say no, but thanks for the offer, when it occurred to him that he could take a half-hour, answer a few of this guy’s questions over the phone, and get Chyla off his back by letting her know that he was out there doing publicity. He thought for a moment. “Why don’t you leave me your contact information, and I’ll get back to you.”
Rackley smiled broadly. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”
He pulled out a business card and handed it to Todd, which was a good sign.The man was professional enough to have a card with his name, phone number, email address and the name of his podcast, “Just About Anything,” printed on it. Which hopefully meant that he wasn’t some loser broadcasting out of his mother’s basement or his sister’s backyard storage shed.
“I’ll be in touch,” Todd said, turning back toward Rosita, and was glad when Rackley thanked him and then left, obviously picking up on the social cue. Another good sign.
He and Rosita spent the afternoon driving around to different stores, looking for his book. They found it at one out of the three Targets, at neither of the Wal-Marts, and at both of The Stores they hit. With one person acting as lookout for store clerks, they took turns rearranging copies of the books they did find into more advantageous positions, at one store switching places with an Ann Tyler novel, at another moving his book in front of a line of John Grishams. Just like old times.
It was too late to call Chyla by the time they got home, but he rang her up the next morning and told her about the possibility of promoting his book on a podcast, telling her the whole story. She was less excited by the idea than he expected her to be, maybe because she hadn’t come up with the idea herself.
“Pertinent info,” she said. “Give it to me.”
Todd read her the information off the business card.
“Let me look into it and call you back,” Chyla told him.
“Look into what?”
“I’ll call you back.”
Bemused, he hung up the phone. He turned on a his computer and started writing, picking up from where he’d left off the day before. Some time later, the phone rang. He picked up on the first ring. “It’s a legitimate podcast,” Chyla said happily. “He’s had Aaron Sorkin on there, and Ben Stiller and Amy Sedaris.”
“So I’m good to go?”
“You’re good to go. And if this works out—”
“We’ll see,” Todd said.
“This could be the first of many—”
“Goodbye, Chyla.”
After debating whether to call or email Winston Rackley, Todd decided to jump right in and dialed the number on the card. He’d expected to schedule a time a few weeks out, but either Rackley had no other guests lined up, or was as big a fan as he’d portrayed himself and was willing to bump someone else for Todd, because he said, “How about this afternoon?”
Startled, Todd did not immediately respond. He wrote better than he spoke, and would rather have some time to prepare, to think of questions he might be asked and then write down intelligent answers. Then again, maybe it was better to get it out of the way. He’d been interviewed before. It wasn’t that difficult.
“This isn’t one of those things where I have to be on Skype or Zoom or Facetime or something, is it? I can just talk to you on the phone, right?”
“Of course. My podcast is for listening, not watching. In fact, I think most people probably listen to it in their cars.”
“So what time would this be?”
“It’s up to you. I’m flexible.”
They hashed out the details, Rackley giving him a basic framework for the discussion and getting Todd’s email address so he could send a link to previous episodes of the podcast. “So you can get a feel for what we do.”
We? Todd thought. He was pretty sure “Just About Anything” was a one-man operation, but he didn’t say anything. He told Rackley he’d call in at two o’clock and promised to listen to earlier episodes so he would know what he was getting into.
“Talk to you then,” the host said.
Todd tried to get back to work, but the thought of the podcast hung over his head, and he found himself distracted. He started listening to the Aaron Sorkin episode, but Sorkin was so witty and engaging that he was completely intimidated. He stopped listening after about ten minutes and quickly started scripting some dialogue for himself, several stories about the writing of the new book that he thought would be entertaining. Thank God this was going to be over the phone. He could read his answers off the screen and no one would know.
“It sounds like fun,” Rosita told him at lunch.
Todd shook his head. “Oh, no. It is not going to be fun.”
It wasn’t that bad, though. He started off by reading his responses, but the conversation veered off in a different direction, one that he hadn’t prepped for, and he was soon forced to wing it. Rackley was a good host, however, putting him at ease almost immediately, and soon they were chatting as though they were old friends. They went through Todd’s childhood, education, formative experiences, then started delving into the books. The questions were intelligent and informed but not picayune—rather than an attempt to trip him up or make him look foolish, they were a genuine effort to find out why he’d written what he’d written—and they progressed logically from one novel to the next.
Finally it came: “Where do you get your ideas?”
It was the most commonly asked question of any writer, and one for which he was definitely prepared. “I get most of my ideas from real life. It was either William Faulkner or Henry James who said that fiction is not facts, it’s the truth behind the facts, and my own reactions to real incidents tend to inspire my characters and plots. In fact, I recently had a little run-in with the DMV, and my wife suggested that I incorporate it into my next book—”
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have,” Rackley interrupted.
All the time we have? There’d been no indication that the interview was winding down. Besides, podcasts had no time constraints, did they? Wasn’t that the point of podcasts, that they were free and open-ended discussions?
“You asked me where I get my ideas, and I just wanted to explain how an ordinary everyday experience like a problem at the DMV could find its way into—”
“And thank you for speaking with us, Mr. Klein.”
There was an abrupt dial tone as the call was cut off. Puzzled, Todd put down the phone.
Weird, he thought. Weird.
FIVE
“Sorry, sport. Your mom’s gonna have to take you.”
Danny Wilding tried not to let his disappointment show. His dad had been the one to accompany him to all of his weekend Driver’s Ed classes, even the two at night, and it was his dad who had helped him study for the written test, which was the reason he had passed with flying colors. So it was disheartening that his father was too busy to come with him today and see it through to the finish. Not that he wasn’t glad to have his mom there—he would have liked both of them to come—but this had been one of the first things since Little League, back when he was in elementary school, that father and son had done together.
Putting a hand on Danny’s shoulder, his dad looked into his eyes. “You can do it. I know you can.” He smiled. “And I want you to call me as soon as the test’s over. I’m working from home today, so I’ll be right here. If I’m in conference and Jill answers the phone, just tell her to come and get me.”
Danny had his doubts that Jill would do any such thing—and one look at his sister’s smirking face told him he was right to be skeptical—but he nodded glumly. “I will.”
His dad gave him an encouraging pat on the back. “Go get ’em, Tiger.”
It felt strange driving with his mom, and Danny found himself being extra cautious with her in the car. She didn’t offer tips and pointers as he drove, the way his dad did, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. On the one hand, this was what the test itself would be like, so it was probably good preparation. On the other hand, maybe he could actually use some last minute advice.
The line was already long when they reached the DMV, vehicles snaking around the far side of the building and well into a double-lane in the center of the parking lot that had clearly been marked off for just this purpose. Danny counted twelve cars ahead of them—and those were only the ones he could see. There were even more around the corner of the building that were not visible from this angle.
His mom must have noticed the same thing. “Go up this aisle, then get in line behind that last car,” she told him.
“I still need to go inside and check in.”
“You can do that while I stay in line. Otherwise, more cars are going to come, and we’ll be even farther behind. It’ll take us forever to get out of here.”
“What if you have to sign something?” He didn’t feel entirely comfortable going into the DMV by himself.
“Here. Let me see what you have there.” His mom held out her hand, and Danny passed her the forms he’d been holding in his lap. She read over the instructions, turning back and forth from one page to the other. “Looks like there’s only two places a parent needs to sign, and your father already did it, so you should be fine.” She handed back the papers. “Just turn that in, they’ll stamp it or something, maybe give you some other form that you need, and you bring it back here.”
She got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s door. Danny shut off the engine, got out and handed her the keys as she took his seat. He still felt self-conscious about going in by himself—he was used to having parents by his side for official things like this—but he figured he’d be able to handle it.
Mr. Sabato, his Driver’s Ed teacher, along with everyone else he’d talked to, had warned him about the DMV, so Danny was expecting crowded chaos when he walked through the doors of the building. To his surprise, however, there were only a few short orderly lines in front of clearly marked counters. He quickly and easily found the one for driving tests, and stood for a few moments behind a girl about his own age and her mom before being called to the window.
“Paperwork,” the elderly man behind the counter said.
Danny pushed forward the forms he’d brought with him.
“First try?” the clerk asked.
Danny nodded. The question had not been posed in an interested, supportive way nor in a disinterested matter-of-fact manner, but rather in a discouraging tone that implied there would be many more tries before Danny eventually passed. He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and wished his mom had come in with him, as the girl’s mother had. So what if they had to wait in the car a little longer?
The clerk tore off a part of the top form, kept one half and gave the other back to Danny. “Give this to the DMV employee riding with you,” he said. He placed the other two sheets on a shelf beneath the counter. There was the zzt-zzt-zzt sound of a printer, and the man reached behind him and tore off a newly printed document, which he handed to Danny. “Bring this back if you pass the test and take it to Window Three.” He pointed. “Present it with your learner’s permit.”
Danny nodded.
The clerk stared at him for a moment.
“Is that it?” Danny asked.
The man leaned forward, speaking so quietly that it was difficult to hear him. “Just to let you know: having a driver’s license is a privilege not a right. You have to earn your license.”
Danny stepped back, uneasy. “Okay.”
“People sacrifice for the opportunity to have a license. Do you understand? Sacrifice.” The clerk leaned back in his swivel chair, abruptly through with him. “Next in line,” he announced.
What was that about? Danny wondered. Holding on to his papers, he exited the building as quickly as possible. Outside, the sun had burned away the few morning clouds that had been hovering over the city. Their Toyota, he noticed, was closer by at least two car lengths, and, as his mom had predicted, there were several new vehicles in line behind her. He might get through this quicker than he’d originally thought.
His mom stepped out of the car, returning to the passenger seat as Danny got in and took the wheel. He told her about the weird old guy who’d lectured him about earning his license and sacrificing, and she laughed. “It’s always an adventure,” she said.
The line moved slowly, and while they waited, he practiced hand signals and had his mom verbally describe driving scenarios he might face, while he explained with what maneuvers he would respond.
They were still waiting, now only six cars back from the head of the line, when his mom’s phone rang. She looked down at the screen.
“Jill,” she told him, holding the phone to her ear. “Hi, Jill. What’s up?”
His mom’s face changed. He watched it in real time, her smile disappearing, replaced with a wide-eyed stricken expression he had never seen before.
“When?” she asked. Then, a moment later, “Are they there yet?”
Danny’s mouth felt dry.
His mom got off the phone without saying goodbye.“Switch places,” she ordered him, immediately unbuckling her seat belt and shoulder harness. “We have to go.”
He was frightened by her pale face and suddenly frantic mien. “Why?”
She didn’t answer right away, and that scared him more than anything else.
“Mom?”
“It’s Daddy,” she said, opening the car door.
He knew he didn’t want to hear the rest.
“He’s…” She wiped away the tears that had suddenly sprung from her eyes. “He died.”
****
There was Before.
And there was After.
His existence had changed so utterly and completely that it was almost as though he’d lived two separate lives. Now, anytime Danny wasn’t in school, he was at home, usually in his room, usually doing nothing. He avoided his friends, not because he didn’t want to hang out with them, but because the idea of carrying on in a normal manner or, worse, having fun, when his dad was no longer here, made him feel guilty.
Although, he actually didn’t want to hang out with his friends.
He didn’t want to do anything, really. He wanted to sleep. That was one thing he looked forward to, and while he still woke up at six every morning, his bedtime had migrated from ten o’clock to nine o’clock to eight o’clock. Last night, he’d turned in at seven-thirty.
He hadn’t realized until now how much his dad did around the house. He’d had a sort of TV sitcom concept of his father—in Danny’s mind, his dad worked to support the family, occasionally went to the store to buy groceries, and once every couple of weeks mowed the lawn—but his absence revealed just how much he contributed to the household on a daily basis. The handle on the oven door suddenly became wobbly, and neither he, his mom nor Jill could figure out how to tighten it. A strange clicking noise came from underneath the car each time a hard left turn was made, and none of them knew whether it was something major that needed to be checked out or something minor that they could ignore. At least once a week, one of them seemed to encounter spiders in the house, and without his dad there to kill the bugs, they were on their own.
