heads. I wanted to take his off. “I know y’all give out samples of Lexapro and Prozac,” I said, “but I was wondering if you had some extra boxes of Elephant Lady–sized tampons and pads as I’m certain to have another period in five to seven days?”
He left with one of those perplexed, “I’m-a-doctor-minusa-personality” expressions, and I left with my K-Y’d parts puddling.
Then, to make matters worse, my next errand was to get my car tag renewed. Only fools will schedule a Pussyectomy and DMV visit on the same day. I’m that kind of fool.
I stood in line wondering if in a week the boring old doctor would call and say I had a reattached hymen from lack of intercourse. The line here wasn’t moving so there was lots of time to think irrational thoughts, my number-one hobby.
The man in front of me was picking his nose, checking the contents out and even chatting with them before putting it all into his hanky and saying, “Bye for now.” I kid you not. And the woman with the six kids behind me was yakking on her cell phone to a man I presumed was her husband or live-in about how the line hasn’t moved since breakfast and her hemorrhoids were giving her fits.
“You get your ass up here you no good sumbitch and stand here with these six young’uns. It’s your restored Gremlin. Not mine. I’ll give it one more hour, then I’m taking my sore ass home and soaking in some Epsom salts.”
She reminded me of my poor friend, a beautiful pharmacist, who was walking around in labor begging the doctors to administer the epidural to her giant hemorrhoid instead of her spine. “I’d been in labor 44 hours and the thing was huge,” she said, sipping red wine and discussing its size while all of us fell over laughing. “I can’t figure out why they didn’t just go ahead and give me what I wanted.”
A few minutes later at the DMV, the lady who was working the counter alone was helped by a man who looked as if he’d been tortured by the government and recently released. He was such a sad sack he made Eeyore seem manic.
Every single person who finally inched up to the counter was sent away. None had proper documentation. No one ever does.
Here’s what I heard from these government-paid public slaves:
“YOU NEED A NOTARY TO SIGN THIS BEFORE YOU CAN GET A TAG, MA’AM.”
“SIR, WE’VE CHANGED THE REQUIREMENTS SINCE YOU WERE LAST HERE FOR TITLE WORK. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO PAY CASH AND SHOW DENTAL RECORDS. YOU COULD BE ANY BODY OFF THE STREETS.”
“But I wear dentures,” the man said, taking them out and setting them on the counter.
At that point I was ready to run.
Then it was my turn.
“Oh, what have we here? I remember you. You’re the little bitch that pitched that fit four years ago when it took you seven tries to get a tag. Welcome back,” she said and scrunched up every feature on her face until she resembled something from Lord of the Rings.
“I’m going to need to see a current license, birth certificate, proof of insurance, PROOF OF LIFE, proof you own that damn car, and we’ll also prick your finger to make sure you are really who you say you are. Standard policy now with all the car theft going on.”
I was stunned. K-Y jelly was running down my left thigh. I wanted to go home.
“I’m not leaving without a tag,” I said. “My temporary blew off in the car wash and I have nothing on my back bumper but a fresh coat of paint. It needs some letters and numbers or I’ll be wearing them on my jumpsuit as I clean liquor bottles from I-240. Please, Madame DMV.”
She clicked and typed and came back with a secret manila envelope.
“You wanna make this trip shorter?”
“Please. Yes.”
“I see you got ‘organ donor’ listed here on your license.”
“Yes, I am a great believer in donating anything you—”
She made that creepy-crawler bug face again. “Shhhhh! This is between you and me, Miss Priss. Now you and me both know you wouldn’t have proper documentation if it jumped outta your ass. You know that. I know that.” She leaned in closer. “It’s not offered to all our customers, but if you’re willing to be a living donor, that is one who’ll give body parts prior to receiving your personal toe tag in the morgue, you get a renewal plate pronto and don’t have to pay the taxes on the vehicle for a year.”
“Do what?”
“That sweet little Lexus your ass is driving around town? You know how much you’re going to owe on that baby? Here’s the deal, sign this paper that you’ll be a LIVING donor and we’ll stamp you clear, give you a tag and set you loose.”
“Living donor?”
“Means we’ll call if we need half your liver, a kidney, some skin for grafting, maybe a fallopian tube, cornea, thumb or shin bone, that sort of thing. Parts you don’t really need to live a normal life.”
I was speechless but definitely interested. I thought about the visit to the gyno and the parts down south I sure didn’t need. “You can have my uterus,” I said. “I was going to sell it on eBay or send it to a hide tanner and turn it into a change purse, but I figure someone might need one.”
She mumbled and gave it some thought. “What else you got to give? A uterus is just a start.”
“I’ll sign over the entire bitch patrol: ovaries, tubes, any eggs that are viable. Just let me have my basic unit ’cause come Christmastime my husband will be wanting it.”
She handed me a tag and let me go. The lady with ’rhoids and six kids was up next. Madame DMV eyeballed those children like prime rib on a buffet table. She must have been mentally tabulating all the potential organs from that one client.
“Want a tag?” I heard her whisper, going into the live-donor speech. “Sign the papers promising us parts such as a bile duct or portal vein, and it’s all yours.”
The woman rubbed her ass and gasped.
“Shhhh!” Madame DMV said. “If you are simply too attached to your portal vein, we’ll also take lung lobes and extra ears, healthy liver sections and other parts you don’t really need to live the good life.” She eyeballed the woman’s large and dragging boobs, seeing the dampened spots on her blouse. “We’ll take a wet nurse, too.”
The poor bedraggled, hemorrhoid-angst woman signed.
“Here’s your tag. Have a nice day.”
That night I went home exhausted and defeated and decided it would be one of those evenings where I’d just lie in the bed with a row of Ritz and channel surf—my mechanism for coping after a bad day. As soon as my Lifetime movie about a born-again teen bulimic cheerleader on crack ended, I flipped to an infomercial and nearly jumped out of my pajamas.
There before me was the most frightening hawker I’d ever seen.
THE JUICE MAN.
He sported tufts of white hair and eyebrows that looked like two bearded caterpillars pulled upward by an invisible string. He kept staring at me through the TV, grimacing and grinning, telling all of us that we were on our way to Coffin Central if we don’t snap up his juicer and start downing all those liquid, straight-from-the-plant vitamins.
The man was in sheer fruit-and-veggie heaven as he plunged whole carrots, beets, apples and anything he could find into his pulverizing juice machine. He’d take a sip and just literally have a happy fit. I’m quite certain the freak had an erection to match his eyebrows.
I may have been tired and my bottom still squishy…I may be facing a future with one lung and a missing cornea, but I swannee that man had a bulge in his pants. Could have been something he was planning on “juicing” later.
He kept yelling through the TV and I continued watching