I did so write a check to register the car, it turns out, but since we have changed our residence, the registration certificate and the little adhesive tab that you're supposed to fix to the license plate never arrived here, and of course I forgot all about the legality of the vehicle. Had no idea. The upshot is that while driving to the airport, I was stopped by a police guy who was lurking in the shadows to pounce on malefactors such as I. I was issued an expensive ticket. Very annoying. I'm generally a law-abiding citizen and I'm not used to being in trouble with the authorities.
Not immediately able to figure out what went wrong, I hustled down to the Motor Vehicle Bureau out there on 33rd Street. I took a number, sat down and rehearsed what I would say to the clerk on duty. All I could think of was, "I need help."
When my number was called, I walked up to the designated clerk, a woman of uncertain age. The sign on her desk said, in rather large letters, "Rhonda." And so I did it. I couldn't help myself. I said, "Help, help me Rhonda." And then, of course, I was immediately chagrined. "I'm sure you hear that all the time," I apologized, admitting to my appalling banality. "Not all the time," she said, "but often enough."
It could have been even worse. I could have declaimed the entire poetic chorus to the Beach Boys' 1965 hit:
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda
Help, help me Rhonda
Help me Rhonda, yeah.
Leave a Reply