As our story opens, our heroes are trying to get cross one more hurdle in becoming legitimate citizens of the state of Tennessee. As they return for the second time with passports, social security #’s, and various documents procured at the house closing they had just attended, they are positive they will finally realize their dream: to grab the brass ring, the golden ticket, the piece of nirvana that is the Tennessee Operators (Drivers) License.
Things look rosy as they enter the building. There are only two people in the room and they are far away from the front desk. The room is clean and smells slightly of apple blossoms.
They are asked for their documents, including their North Carolina licenses. They are handed over with glee, as the Emerald City of documents looms ever so close.
With the excitement building, we take time out for the Real Country Music lyric of the day (today’s lyric isn’t about drinking…but I had to listen for a couple of hours):
Have you read any good telephone books lately?
If you ain't then let me recommend one
I've already read that Tulsa telephone book through thirteen times
If you don't know any last names it ain't much fun
Our heroes are unquestionably US Citizens, agrees the gatekeeper. But what of Tennessee residency? The four pounds of documentation that our hero has lugged to the desk contain many proofs, but none of them are on the list required by law.
No, it doesn’t matter that you have just purchased property and have bank accounts. You need a utility bill. And the heroine in the story only has one proof of Social Security, that being her Social Security card. If only you had brought your marriage license, she says. Then, she explains to our exasperated heroes, you’d be only two documents short.
Our hero keeps his cool while he slams his notebook shut. He begs a bit, but to no avail. He asks why someone would be interested in scamming a Tennessee Driver’s License. He is told he would be surprised. He is in agreement…yes, he would be surprised.
Then, from out of nowhere comes advice from a stranger on the far side of the room: “Well, if you tell them you’re from Williston, they’d give it to you. Williston’s got the bomb.”
What?
