I'd been running out on the responsibility of registering my car in the District of Columbia for over two months. My car, secretly parked at Reagan National Airport under the ruse of a very long business trip, was hiding from the tow truck summoned last Thursday to carry it away into the abyss of an impound lot. I had called every day for two weeks to find out if the DMV had yet received my car's title, the last necessary detail before I could make everything legal, and each day the answer was no, and my car continued its banished wait in the state of Virginia where no one was out to take it away.

But then Friday came with its sun and promise. And like a dream come true, the last key turned the last lock. My title had arrived and off I went to begin the arduous task of obtaining overpriced insurance, smiling for a digital camera to license me as the District's newest driver, and snatching up those metal rectangles of wonder and worth.

Later, as I related this story to Laine, I talked about the universality of the DMV. The true melting pot of America sits there every day in cluttered rows of uncomfortable chairs, staring up at the red digital numbers hanging down from the ceiling. I filled out my forms, registered to vote, organized my heap of required paperwork, read my book, and stared helplessly at the numbers. Waiting. And waiting.

The process, once set in motion after this eternity of waiting, was smooth and painless. It only took 40 minutes to possess the best driver's license photograph I'd ever taken, the much-needed resident parking permit, and those plates with the slogan I'd waited so long to display: Taxation Without Representation.

The District's slogan used to be "A Capital City". And while the plate design itself is just as boring at it ever was, at least now it's got a slogan with a little kick right into the crotch of our Federal Government which continually denies congressional voting representation to those of us within the District's boundaries. When I told Todd about this today he didn't believe me, so I promised to march out later with my socket wrench to free my front plate for an a bout of digital scanning.

But back on Friday, happy happy registration day, I took the yellow Metro line to the airport and the subsequent shuttle to the economy parking lot. I affixed the necessary stickers to my windshield. I removed my old, boring Massachusetts tags and attached my shiny new DC plates. Shoved the top of the car into the trunk, turned Dave Grohl up way too loud, and took off for the George Washington Parkway.

I took 33rd Street North through the cobblestone streets of Georgetown. People glanced my direction and I smiled at the thought of a task accomplished, a perfect day to celebrate. At the intersection at R Street, a man on a bicycle attempted to flag me down. I stopped short and turned down the radio to hear the inevitable.

I had a flat tire.

You have to know me and tires. You had to have been there in the cube I shared with Todd at MEDITECH in October of 1998 when I managed to obtain three flat tires in one day. You have to know my fearlessness at digging out the spare, the jack, the crowbar. Setting the emergency brake. Setting the timer. I've done it a full length skirt and platform sandals in 18 minutes. I've done it in the pouring rain during rush hour in Boston's financial district. I know tires.

But my new bicycled friend offered to help. And I simply felt so defeated, so silly about the arrogance of my convertible in March and the audacity of my smiles to strangers, that I accepted. Besides, he laughed at my jokes and helped me to ease into the humor of it all. And in less than five minutes it was over. The jack replaced, the tire consuming my tiny trunk. As he dusted off his hands, I made a bold decision, one that has often plagued me in the past, to offer him something for his trouble.

He began his story with the optimism of a new job that started at 6:30 that night. He didn't have the money to buy the kind of clothes that he needed to wear, but someone had given him a shirt and a very sharp tie. And that afternoon he had gone to the thrift shop on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown to look for a pair of pants. He found the perfect pair, but at a price of $20.00 that he simply didn't have. He told me about how he had propositioned the store's owner, offered to clean windows, empty trash, do whatever it took to get those pants. His story was sincere, both at the time he offered it to her and in his revisionist version for me. But the woman wouldn't budge. No deal could take the place of money.

I knew I no longer had the crisp twenty from that morning, short one bus and Metro fare, but as I walked toward the passenger's side of the car to retrieve my wallet, he asked if I would permit him to wash my car and clean the interior for enough money to buy those pants. I laughed, asked him if he remembered two minutes ago when he saved my rim from obvious destruction and changed my tire with grace. He smiled and began a protest, but I couldn't listen. I grabbed the $17.50 that was left in my wallet, opening the car's ashtray in search of a few more coins. I pushed it into his hand telling him that I wished it was more. He gave me a hug, promising the ease with which he would find the remaining $2.50. My defeated feeling long gone, I thanked him again, wished him well, and took off for home.

Smiling once more.