Plate Surrender

Kristen Lavin Daly
Jul 20, 2017 · 5 min read

I came to turn in my old license plates. I told the man that when he asked why I was here. He pressed a button on a machine, and handed me a piece of paper with a number. E294, it read. And beneath that, “PLATE SURRENDER.” Even then, I should’ve known.

But that was before; before I walked past the barred windows and doors. That was my old life. That me is gone now. I don’t even remember what she looks like anymore.

The room is huge. It’s full of ironic church pews and people with dead eyes. How long have they been here? I wonder. I sit in the front of the room, so I can see the Big Screen. I don’t want to miss my number when they call it, and I’m sure it won’t be too long. Look, they’ve just called three E’s in a row. I’m only six E’s away, how long could it take?

Hours pass.

Is that a woman giving birth? Is someone playing ‘Creed’ on speakerphone, or is this simply the devil’s work? Even my current favorite terrible Netflix show, the one where all the French royals are in an Urban Outfitters commercial, isn’t enough to sufficiently drown out the horrors that surround me.

I adjust my numbed ass on the ironic church pew. Prayer occurs to me, and I laugh aloud. GOD ISN’T HERE, I want to shout. GOD CAN’T HEAR US! WE ARE UTTERLY ALONE! GET OUT BEFORE THEY SHOW US WHAT THE BARS ARE FOR! But I don’t say any of this, because I really need to turn in these plates.

Just then, there’s an announcement.

I am reminded of how, when people hear terrible news- life changing news- that later, they remember things in bits and pieces. Odd details stick out: the smudge on the surgeon’s glasses, the police officer’s collar being askew.

“We regret to inform you… computer system is down… no transactions to be completed at this time… Albany is aware… keep you apprised…”

Albany is aware?

Suddenly there is more than the general murmur/ block party background noise that has filled the Warehouse of Souls since I arrived. Now I think revolution is at hand. Now I think I know what the bars are for.

I glance quickly around the room, looking for the rotting vegetables. The people came for blood, and they will have it. But somehow the numbers are still being called, and E294 is only two E’s away. I stand my ground.

Another hour passes.


In this new society, much is changed, but much remains the same. New smells greet me: someone is eating lunch, and someone has soiled themselves. Perhaps they are the same person? So much eludes me.

I imagine what we will say to the next generation, who we will raise in this new world of our creation. “This is the Big Screen. This is where we used to see the Numbers, back before your mother and father met in the bathroom line and then had you and then sent you to school at that counter over there with all the other DMV babies.”

Two more announcements follow, all pretty much the same. Why do they keep telling us they don’t know what’s going on? Why hasn’t Albany sent reinforcements? They should’ve been here by now. Have they abandoned us? Is it too dangerous? Has the computer system become sentient, and finally had enough? Are they our overlords now? Do we have to learn binary?

I am startled from my thoughts by a beautiful, Rubenesque angel in what appears to be a Blockbuster uniform. But she’s wearing a lanyard, like she works here.

“What are you in for?”

It takes me a moment to realize I am not in prison, and that there are no more Blockbusters. “Turning in plates,” I say, and hold up the dirty yellow metal in my lap. Perhaps for proof — to show her that I had a life before I came here, that I wasn’t always on the inside, that there are people somewhere who will be looking for me.

It works.

She returns a moment later, speaking to myself and another plate-holder almost secretly, so as not to incite a riot, or get us caught. I know they must be watching her every move.

“That line right there,” she says. “Line up at number 17 and she’ll take you in ticket order.”

She is some sort of elderly Trunchbull. Her skin is a pumpkin patch covered in liquid sandpaper. She has the hair of an outdoor cat. She is all of my fears made flesh.

“TAKE THE PLATES OUT OF THE BAGS,” she cries. “NO RUBBERBANDS!!!! NO BAGS!!!!” She pounds at the computer keyboard. “DON’T DO THIS TO ME. I’M TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT.” She turns her wrath upon the printer, slamming it against the wall. “NOT YOU TOO,” she laments. She sees the quiet young Asian man in front of me, who has already followed her advice, but still, she persists. “TAKE THEM OUT OF THE BAGS!!!!!!!”

She is in the midst of hysteria, and my fear and outrage ebb into sympathy and familiarity. She is me, I realize. She is me in 50 years, if I don’t get out of this place. I am become the Trunchbull.

“Take them out of the bags,” her co-worker adds, softly. Looking around, I don’t see a single bag.

“I’VE ALREADY TOLD THEM, ALICE. STOP MAKING FUN OF ME. I’M A PERSON, ALICE. I’M A PERSON.”

Poor Alice. Her kind can’t survive in a place like this. Soon she, too, will be changed, like the rest of us.

“WHAT’S THE LAST NAME FOR THE PLATES?”

The quiet young Asian man tells her. He even tells her the first name.

“I DON’T CARE ABOUT THE FIRST NAME. I ASKED YOU FOR THE LAST NAME. I JUST NEED THE FIRST THREE LETTERS OF THE LAST NAME. I DON’T KNOW YOU, DON’T TELL ME YOUR FIRST NAME.”

I don’t realize it’s my turn until she tells me to take them out of the bags. I didn’t even bring a bag! Also, what’s the timesaving index there? At the fumbliest, I’m thinking three seconds max. The unexpected tidal wave of empathy is gone, and I am once again wading in a knee-deep puddle of belligerence.

“WHAT’S THE LAST NA-”

L-A-V!” I shout. I feel human again. I feel alive. I didn’t even know I could speak until this very moment.

She takes the plates from my icy grip with a tissue, as if I’m the monster.

I get my receipt.

I am free.

I walk to the door slowly, deliberately, with my head held high. If I move too quickly, they will catch me. I want to run, but I pace myself, taking deep breaths. They will not see me cry. They will not see me broken. I will survive this.

I open the door, and feel the warmth of sunlight and freedom.

I remember who I am.

I am not the Trunchbull, I tell myself. I have always been, and will always be, the kid who ate all that chocolate cake.

)

Kristen Lavin Daly

Written by

Storyteller, sonographer, musician, and raccoon enthusiast.

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