I was at the D.M.V. the other day, getting my driver’s license renewed. The woman took my insurance information and walked out to the back room. After a short while, she came out and asked, “Can I ask you something personal, Mr. Valentine? Have you been drinking this morning? You reek of alcohol.”

Wow, that one caught me off guard. Keep in mind that it was only 8:30 in the morning. I started to think. I hadn’t been drinking the night before. I knew I didn’t have whiskey with my cereal that morning. Maybe I was sleepwalking early that morning, raided the liquor cabinet, and got smashed while I was still sound asleep. That must have been what happened.

The D.M.V. woman smelled pretty pungent herself. The plump little woman smelled like she had been dipped in a toxic batch of old-lady perfume. She leaned forward and explained to me that it wouldn’t be possible for her to issue me a new license, because I had apparently been drinking.

My first instinct was to throw a fit, start yelling at the clerk and demand she cooperate with my demands. But then I thought, “Yeah, that’ll really prove my sobriety. It’s best to just be cool.” So I told the woman I’d come back later that afternoon (after I had sobered up).

I left the D.M.V. and drove to Albertson’s. I grabbed a fifth of Wild Turkey and case of beer, then headed to my house to get to work.

I took a shot of Wild Turkey and chased the shot with a beer. This process continued into the early afternoon. All the while, my thoughts began to meander. “The nerve of that bitch. Calling me drunk? She smelled worse than me. She’s probably pissed because her boyfriend’s an alcoholic woman-beater. He probably comes home at two in the morning and starts smacking that fat, troll-looking bitch all around their doublewide. That would explain her prickly demeanor. Well, I’ll get that bearded hag.”

At about 12:30 that afternoon, I was pretty tanked up and ready for action. I loaded my flask with the rest of the Wild Turkey, chugged the rest of my beer, and headed out.

I took a number and sat at the D.M.V., waiting for my turn. I was swigging from the flask when she called my number. I stuffed it back into my back pocket and stumbled across to the empty desk.

Much to my disappointment, the woman that was waiting on me this time was not the same musky, chubby bitch from that morning. The new clerk was a cute little brunette in her mid-twenties. She said nothing about alcohol. I was very surprised, because I had even spilled some liquor on my shirt and dampened my hair with the Turkey. I was just waiting for someone to accuse me of being drunk so I could throw a fit like I had originally planned to do, but nothing …

I paid $13, signed a piece of paper, and smiled for my picture. Unbelievable, totally unbelievable. I walked out and looked down at my new I.D. The only thing I could think was, “Wow, I’ve had mug shots that looked better than this.”