A few months ago, two officers took my license tag but gave me no instructions on what I was supposed to do next, other than ride around town getting stopped every other block by the police.

Since then I have been trying to get my car serviced, inspected and the registration renewed. It’s like there has been some freakish automobile alignment of the stars.

I stopped at one of the local inspection places. Is it just me, or does there seem to be more of those places in the hood? Anyway, I failed the inspection.

The mechanic told me: “Your tires are bad, man, and your brake light is out.”

You know how you feign disbelief when the mechanic is talking to you about your car? He showed me the tires and, yes, they were pretty bad. You could have spit in the road and I would have gone into a tailspin on those bald treads.

I took my failed inspection test and left humiliated. There is no extra credit or grading on the curve with the inspection test; it’s pass or fail.

Mind you, I am driving with the wrong tag, no registration sticker, no brake lights and I have locks. I might as well have gotten a bumper sticker that read: “ I am a stereotype and I brake for citations.”

Driving under these conditions is like being in a video game. You are constantly trying to avoid the police and place yourself between cars that look like they have current insurance.

The last thing I needed was an accident, so I made my way to one of the local discount tire places. New tires on an SUV is no joke. The guy told me how much four new tires would cost and I started laughing. He said the price came with a lifetime warranty.

“Good,” I said, “because it was going to take me that long to pay for them."

My trip to Tire World was enough to reduce me to Sophia in the movie “The Color Purple” -- rocking and staring into space in the waiting room: “I know what it’s like to want to drive on new tires but too scared and broke to hit the road. Pass me them peas.”

I finished at Tire World then headed to see why the brake lights were out. Luckily, the lights were covered under warranty. But I had to sit in a crowded waiting room while various soccer moms and their young minions came and went.

People who let their children run wild in public while they talk on their cell phones drive me crazy. I spent the majority of the time searching for a taser application on my iPhone. I wanted just enough voltage to render the kids immobile for an hour or so.

My car was finally released and I was off to the DMV for a license plate and registration.
I arrived at the DMV, which is right up there with root canals and chemo as fun things to do.

I took my place in line and folks started the requisite chit-chat. One very nice black woman in front of me asked why I was there, and I explain that I had to get a tag. An elderly black man told me "The Lord will get you through.”

I love black folks!

I thought to myself: It's an expired registration sticker, not colon cancer. I waited patiently for one of the clerks, all of whom were black, to call me to the counter.

There are several places African-Americans dominate: Sports, entertainment, Red Lobster and civil service jobs.

It was finally my turn and I approached the counter. I was about to explain that I had come to reclaim my imprisoned tag, but before I could launch into the meaty part of my tale, the clerk stopped me.

"Do you have the tag?”

“No, they took it,” I respond.

She told me how much I needed to pay and then issued me a new tag.

I laughing ask: "What about the tag the police took? Will I ever see it again?”

She gave me a deadpan look like, “Don't make me pepper spray you, fool.”

I left the DMV finally validated with a new tag.

I was still despondent about not getting my old tag back. I felt like my old tag was still being detained at Guantanamo and was most likely being cavity searched by some big military Hummer tag. I missed my old tag!

“This sucks,” I thought to myself. ”What if other government offices, like DSS, worked this way?”

“We took your daughter, Regina Jackson. But here, take Quan Lee, they both have dark hair and are about the same size.”

***
Professor Locs describes himself as an African American, gay, Southern male who has had an extensive career in higher education. His column appears each Wednesday. Click here to read his blog.

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