“All wildly interesting, but,” Tony huffed to
pace his request, “I just want to get my license back.”
“Your
license or your life?” The lady at the Illinois DMV had already called her
manager on this guy, this possible ghost in an otherwise unlively day.
“B-both,”
Tony stammered. “I didn’t die—that’s the point!”
The manager
lumbered in and looked at the screen that had swiveled to Tony for his own
eyeballing:
22.10.19, 23:39. Driver P142-4558-7924 determined liable
for one 12-08 fatality on East
Algonquin Road (42.0321372,-87.8750748), consequent collision 41 resulting in
driver fatality. Two DOA upon transfer
to Lutheran General. No other operatives involved.
The three of them ogled. “Clear as can be,” the manager
said.
“Wait—I
didn’t… die, if you…”
It was the
lady’s turn to huff. “You’ll need a court record. Certificate of—”
“Birth?!
Resurrection? This is absurd!”
Tony, of
course, didn’t die. He had flown in from Rome without any record of the theft of
his wallet there, fifteen months earlier. He’d cancelled his credit cards and
counted everything else for loss. As a casual Catholic, however, he prayed that
the thief might at least turn in his driver’s license, a picture of his college
crush, little lists he liked having handy. It was half-time at a Lazio football
match and he’d draped his jacket on his seat before heading to the WC—who the
hell would rummage through the pockets?
Someone
with a delayed conscience, it turned out. The thief had debited a stadium
bratwurst and beer, then failed later on at a pub across the city. The
thirty-some Euros in bills would take care of the latter, assuming the thief
hadn’t bought rounds for the house. He (or she) would spare enough change to
put the wallet into a padded envelop and send to the name and address on the
drivers license: Anthony Primo, 1322 W. Touhy Ave, Apt 7, Park Ridge, Illinois,
60068, clear as can be.
Tony hadn’t
lived there for years—several subsequent tenants ago, it turned out. The person
who opened this package from Rome was an Andy Frain worker at Wrigley Field,
underemployed from October through March. He’d lost his own license after a
second DUI and smiled at this windfall: he looked rather similar to this
Anthony Primo, could imagine being a Secondo of sorts. Not that he’d have to be
pulled over again. It was time to grow up, keep a clean slate.
Secondo’s
Kia Rio had been impounded, so if he was going to drive, he had to shop for
something else. He always wanted a muscle car—a GTO or something of that sort.
Scrounging around used auto lots, he was drawn to an 1972 Alfa Romeo, “a GT
without the O,” the salesman said. “It passed its last emissions test,” he
promised, trying to make up for its iffy undersides. Chicago winters had done
some damage to this vintage car, but it still felt sexy. “Mr Primo, I think
you’ll have no regrets.”
Secondo
took back the license, paid forty-nine hundred in cash, and zipped out of the
lot to celebrate a new lease on life.
Indian
summer allowed some time to bondo the rust patches, wax everything shiny and
replace the has-been hubcaps. With some reluctance, he decided to put Anthony’s
picture of the pretty girl into the lip of the rear view mirror. She must have
been an inspiration, and whether she lived in Rome, Italy, or Rosemont,
Illinois, she’d stay close to the spirit of the one who apparently loved her, a
measure of a couple feet from mirror to license, which remained securely tucked
in Secondo’s pocket. Many a moment he brainstormed how he might do justice to
the situation—find the real Primo, perhaps through one of the names on the
scribbled lists. The envelope had no return address, and… nothing invited too
much pursuit of such dumb luck.
It was
worth a drink or two. All semblance of summer—Indian or otherwise—came to a
quick end the evening of October 22, when rain turned to sleet and Schaumburg,
where the party was, could care less how to get Secondo home. The pretty girl
in the rear view mirror seemed to sympathize—getting home being a matter of inertia,
headed there at a constant rate, or never having any nudge in the first place.
Though
Oakton Community College hadn’t provided him a course in physics, he thought
about that paradox—inertia—and how fickle fate was. Last week he’d been stopped
by a cop to explain why his Alfa Romeo didn’t have plates. “You realize, Mr
Primo,” the cop read out his name deliberately, “that technically you’re not
supposed to drive this vehicle until they’re delivered.”
“I guess I
was misinformed by the salesman,” Secondo lied, “and I thought the title would
be enough.”
“The car is
obviously yours. Insurance is also going to follow, yes?”
Secondo
nodded unthinkingly. That was last week, when he hadn’t been drinking. Fate
almost tripped him up then, but now, with
this muse in the mirror, the pride of the night, and just about home with no
cops on this road, I feel—
Out of
sight. Tony Primo left the DMV office and taxied to Touhy Avenue. He knew
almost nobody there, having left that neighborhood six or seven jobs ago, most
of them overseas. He rang his own erstwhile address to minutes of silent
futility. Other names on the panel weren’t familiar, and when he finally
reached one that was home, the voice didn’t want to talk to him.
He slumped
to the side of the entryway, slowly putting the pieces together. Some dude assumed my identity, crashed three
miles from here and killed somebody besides himself. As myself! And all due to
that thief’s good turn, mailing back my license. Betcha he feels great about
that, bastard, just grand. Betcha—
Daniel Martin Vold Lamken (2020)
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