Go Fish

Some of life’s gambles

I found the License Plate Agency in a run-down shopping center called Burleson Square. The sign above the door equaled in size to the license plates they sold. I drove around, with a cracked windshield that looked like piece of modern art, for half an hour looking for it. An eagle couldn't have seen this sign let alone a nearsighted woman wearing tortoise glasses with smudges on the lenses.

Like many things in life, getting a license plate in North Carolina proved difficult. I didn't know if I needed an appointment. I guessed what I needed to bring, but a woman like me likes to be prepared. I called multiple times a day for several days in a row. I heard lots of rings but no answer. This confirmed my need to go in-person with the risk of leaving empty handed.

Once I found the speck of the sign on the building and walked in the door, the smell of cigarette smoke took me back to the poker room at Brookwood Country Club. I stood in line for forty minutes thinking about the times I played Go Fish at the tables that felt like the red coat I wore to church on many Christmas Eves.

This room was mysterious to an eight year old. Sometimes I’d pass by the open door to see tables full of men with clouds of smoke hovering their ball caps and what looked like checker pieces, but with more colors, stacked into towers. At other times, the open door revealed an empty room. This is when us kids left the heat of the sun at the swimming pool and seized a seat in the air condition. Several ashtrays scattered across the green felt. We stacked them and moved them to another table as if they had cooties. Then we’d pull out a deck of cards (from where I don't remember), and someone—other than me—would shuffle. To this day, I can't shuffle. Then we played Go fish.

The lady behind the plastic told me in her grating voice to get my car inspected. Then I could register my car in North Carolina. Then I could get an NC tag.

Go fish.

The next day, I took my car to get inspected at the local mechanic shop where I planned to walk back to my house while they worked. It was overcast in May. I looked forward to walking past the honeysuckle and grabbing an iced latte at Cup and Cone in the town center. But this didn't happen because they turned me away. I needed to get a new windshield before I could pass the inspection. Before I could register my car in North Carolina. Before I could get an NC tag.

Go fish.

I called the “Glass Wizard”—the name the mechanic shop gave me—and made an appointment for him to work his magic the next week. Could he make the cost that kept adding up disappear?—I wished. Could he make the tag appear above the back bumper?

I returned to the smokey room of the License Plate Agency. This time I waited in line while reading State of Wonder. The gamble of the line took me to the same woman. “Oh, Honey, ” she said with the same hoarse voice that wasn't from a cold. “This isn't your title. It looks like this.” And she fumbled through a three-ring binder until she found an example of what a Mississippi car title looked like. Like the hunchback of Notre Dame, I walked out—back to my car with the blemish-free windshield but the incredibly expired tag. Go fish.

I did what any Southern belle would do and called my daddy who promised to fetch my title for me. But they wouldn't let him. I had to print out a form. My printer had no ink. I had to go to a friend’s house to print out the form. I had to fill out said form, write a check, and send it before I could receive the title. Then I could register my car in North Carolina. Then I could get an NC tag.

I went back to Burleson Square for the third time and breathed in the cigarettes. Finally, I caught a fish.