Inspected

After five point five years of living in Memphis — including many months of owning a home here — I’ve finally decided to take the plunge and get Shelby County tags. I figure I may as well fritter away my tax dollars locally rather than in Hardin County, where they go to build jails that house former high school classmates of mine. At least in Shelby County my tax dollars can go to fund some ridiculous scandal that will hopefully keep my place of employ in business.

Hardin County tags used to be $37 or so a year, as opposed to Big Shelby’s $100+ pricetag, which also necessitates a vehicle inspection. Hardin County tags are now upwards of $80, so I figured that’s enough of an incentive to just go ahead get my Shelby on. My dread and overwhelming laziness, however, kept me from getting the inspection or the tags all year, even when the last day of June slipped off the calendar and suddenly my plates were hot hot hot, giving me reason to dodge cop cars in traffic like I had a kilo of something powdery in my trunk. I made it all the way across the state and back without ruffling the popo’s feathers, but Saturday morning all it took was a run to the bank and there I was, playing dumb and hoping the nice young officer man would just give me a warning. I was a whopping 17 days overdue. He smiled sweetly and handed me a mandatory court appearance ticket, and told me to drive safe. Well. I asked for it, didn’t I?

And that is how I ended up at the Washington Street inspection station Monday, reading bits of The Road (nothing like a scorched-earth story to pass the time while trying to worm your way in and out of a municipal office) in between tiny accelerator bursts to advance my place in line. When it was my turn I was nervous — like, first-date nervous! — and then it turned into testing anxiety as the stone-faced worker calmly and without pausing ordered me to put it in park, engage my emergency brake, put it in drive, give it gas, put it in park, disengage emergency brake, write down the first 12 decimal points of pi, open my door, turn on my headlights, turn on my left blinker, turn on my right blinker, whistle the “Tennessee Waltz,” put the brake on, turn on the high beams, turn on the low beams, close my door, pat my head and rub my belly, recite the Bill of Rights, take this paperwork, and have a wonderful day. I got my little printout saying I had passed and felt entitled to a celebration.

So I enjoyed the afternoon on the couch, spent.