Sonny & me vs. The State of New York

I moved through the crowded room, jostling and bumping my way to the exit. People looked at me and then lowered their gaze, quickly. They could probably smell the hot-blood that boiled inside me. They could probably see the stamp of utter rejection on my forehead. I felt light-headed. I needed air. Sonny was quiet, just followed me, probably feeling as stunned as I was. We escaped out of the old maze of a building and into the brilliant sunshine. The gooesbumps on my arms refused to flatten in the heat. We walked along briskly, silent as two marble bookends. We stood at the crosswalk...waited. I opened my mouth, took a breath and squeaked out my words.

"What are we going to do? " the tears welled up behind my eyes so quickly, I had to reach out and grip Sonny's arm to keep myself from getting killed as we crossed the street.

"I don't know." was his near-whispered reply.

It was like a kick in the face and sock in the gut simultaneously, being denied that license. We reasoned that it wouldn't do any good to starve ourselves...that maybe if we regrouped over lunch, we could come up with a master plan. I nodded, dumbly, and agreed on a fancy, night-life restaurant about a block away from the bureau when Sonny spotted it. He helped me inside. Geez, I was so fragile.

It was frustrating catching the attention of the staff. It was helter-skelter during the day, I guessed and a tight, smooth running ship at night. But eventually we caught the eye of someone who pushed a reluctant waiter in our direction. We secured our seats in our favorite dining area: the front window area. We were painfully silent. I mean, I was aching to be comforted, to comfort him. But neither of us knew the right combinations of syllables to make the whole thing disappear. Instead we ordered water and gazed out the window. It didn't take long before I was sobbing into crumpled tissues and praying for a miracle. Sonny was stoic (that old English charm) and just a little pale. He waited out the worst of my tears and gently pressed his fingers into my palm. I looked up at him, his face looked different to me. He almost looked frightened.

"Listen, the guy in there told us about the license bureaus on Long Island. He said they may take your learner's permit. It's worth a shot. We just have to make some calls. We just have to get on the phone and make some calls, honey."

At this point I felt, what's the frigging use? It's NY state versus Sonny and me. Who did he suppose would win? Our flamboyant waiter returned, clasped his hands together and asked us in a Spanish accent if we would like to order. Tears spilled down my burning cheeks. I hated to cry in front of a stranger, but they wouldn't stop coming. I was a mess.

I ordered a seafood soup and Sonny asked for some baked chicken meal with a complicated name, in Spanish. Sonny watched and waited as I cycled through my moods and settled on outrage. Who did they think they were, anyway!? My ID was perfectly valid. Has my face and signature on it. Damn them. Sure...let's try some places in Long Island. I fished my cell phone out of my bag and pumped the 411 operator for information. Usually, I'm patient with them, but that day I was ill-tempered, curt and demanding. The State of New York had made it personal.

TO BE CONTINUED. . .