The scene: a wrecking yard. Damaged vehicles lined up in rows. A mobile home for an office. A long line of Hispanic youth waiting to get their cars, along with patient, pain-wracked me. (I had forgotten to take my ibuprofen before running to Albuquerque for errands.)
"My wrecked car was brought in here on Saturday. The insurance guy is supposed to see it today to decide where it's going next, but I just want to get in and take my personal stuff from the car."
"Do you have your license and registration?"
"I have my license. But when I called you just now, you didn't tell me I needed registration."
"We can't let you see your car without proof of ownership."
[looks through wallet]
"Will proof in insurance do?"
"No, I need the registration."
"Why didn't you tell me I needed the registration when I called and asked for directions?"
"You didn't say why you were coming."
"I told you I had a car in your lot and asked for directions. Why did you think I was coming?"
"I need to see your registration."
I got so angry on the way home that I pulled a muscle in my back. I didn't even have to move. It was just from the freaking anger.
I got home and took some oxycodone I'd been prescribed for my operation back in January, and which I didn't need then. Guess I need it now.
I am quite mellow now. I float on waves of joy. Anger is in some whole other existence.