No ‘mo. Ain’t Bettejo no mo’. How in the he**? Can the government tell I ain’t Bettejo no mo’? I take Mondays off. Don’t do Saturday or Sunday go-to-meeting days. I’m a nonbeliever, as you know — but I do
No ‘mo. Ain’t Bettejo no mo’.
How in the he**?
Can the government tell I ain’t Bettejo no mo’?
I take Mondays off. Don’t do Saturday or Sunday go-to-meeting days. I’m a nonbeliever, as you know — but I do need a day off. Monday’s my day.
Rise with the sun. It seeps through my skylight — I sleep under a romantic canopied mosquito net tent and my jungle house lights up about 6 a.m. I’m usually up at 4 a.m. Love to watch my house wake up. It’s an indoor/outdoor organic life-filled house. As much outdoor as indoor. Fragrant. Soft to touch.
On Mondays, I feed my hungry, noisy zoo. Whinnies. Barks. Parrot screeches. Meows. Then have a cup of green tea and a box of seaweed, which I share with my grown-up puppy, Boots, who snuggles in luxury on a faux fur throw on one of two large couches in the doggie room. That room glows Camelot pink even on the grayest day.
Finished with breakfast I soak in a hot bubbly and dress up. I mean really dress up. Clothes, real shoes, Shaiimar. The works. Tuesday through Sunday I wear sweats and boots and a broom and a rake.
I unveil my Toyota and saunter off. Feed the swans at the Hyatt. Shop in Koloa or roll off to Lihue. This was to be a big city day. I would meet my friend and editor, Kimo, for lunch, trot down to the Art Gallery and admire “The Essence of Bettejo,” a portrait by my friend, the artist, Carol Ann Davis.
I’d also pop into the DMV to renew my driver’s license, which was about to expire. I love the guys in the DMV. The light’s a little dim, but my eyes adjust.
I stand in a short line, approach the clerk. Find I need a birth certificate, marriage license — two — one from a long ago marriage I prefer to forget. To make a long story short: I then discover I can’t get the needed documents because I don’t have a driver’s license. It expired, remember? That’s why I needed to renew it. Passport? I needed an ID to get one. An identity card? I needed an ID — which I didn’t have — to get an ID.
What?
Visited the Gov’s office. Darling secretary. No answer to the quandary. Missed my lunch. Drove home, shaken, with no identity. Well, Costco knew me. Macy’s knew me. Even Debbie Orsatelli at BOH knew me.
Would my chef’s hat know me? Or crumple? Would my shillelagh bark me in the shins? Would my Vitamix bite? How’ ‘bout my animals?
Had a space alien jumped in my body overnight? Couldn’t it have found a younger, prettier, smarter body to possess? Lots of them. Lost. Scared. I was driving without a license.
As It turned out everybody knew me. Nobody bit me, hit me, dissolved on my head.
Even Boots knew me. My dogi’s smarter than the government.
Uncle Sam? You’re a royal pain in the three-letter-word.
• Bettejo Dux is a resident of Kalaheo and author of “The Scam: A madcap romp through North Shore Kauai.”
