The Day I Had My Driver’s License Renewed

My birthday was typical. People I knew called me or wrote clever comments in a card circulated at work. I had another year behind me, but was reaching an age where nothing remarkable would change. I was not suddenly legally allowed to partake in anything I had not been allowed the prior year, nor was my new age a multiple of five or ten, a prime number, or a perfect square.

However, this was a year when I would have to renew my driver’s license.

The day arrived when I would take the time to accomplish the task. I chose a Tuesday, an unremarkable day of the week if there ever was one. I drove my brand name, inoffensively-colored car at the speed limit to the DMV. After observing that the four clerks present represented a typical cross-section of the American population by race and sex, I took a number and waited. After the standard waiting time (about seven hours) I was called to the desk and asked to fill out the form that everyone fills out. I noted my average dimensions and paid with a standard bank-design check to cover the expense. Then I had a new picture taken, which was typical for a driver’s license photo (it was horrifying).

I was preparing to leave when Wendy, the clerk that had been assisting me, suddenly and spontaneously burst into flames.

The second clerk completely panicked at the sight of her co-worker self-combusting, and hurled herself out the window. She then sprinted away from the building, arms extended vertically over her head and screaming incoherently. One of the two remaining clerks was frozen in his tracks, mindlessly mouthing something.

The fourth clerk, however, sprang into action. He dashed across the room, a cloud of papers and clipboards, and threw himself into his burning co-worker. He tackled her and doused the flames in seconds using his own skin, which was apparently fire-repellant. Barely breaking a sweat, he tossed Wendy over his shoulder and jumped out the same window the second clerk had used.

On foot, he took his fallen co-worker the ten blocks to the hospital. It was rumored he even donated plasma while he was there. I later learned his name was Victor.

Thanks to Victor’s quick action, Wendy later recovered and went on to discover a cure for Muscular Dystrophy. She hadn’t forgotten him during her acceptance of the Nobel Prize either, crediting him for saving her life and giving her a reason to pursue her dreams of escaping civil service and dedicating her intellect to a life of conquering previously-incurable diseases. "You’re next, cancer!" she had boasted.

Though appreciative, Victor didn’t need her thanks to achieve fame, though, since he had become Secretary-General of the United Nations and was the first man to walk on Mars.

Detailed accounts of Victor and Wendy’s humble beginnings prevent me from taking any personal credit for their actions during or after that fateful Tuesday following my birthday. However, I do hope you appreciate my first-hand retelling of these incidents, now so widely studied in school by our children and serving as inspiration to help others or triumph in the face of adversity.

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