Yesterday was a banner day. I swapped the old Texas tags on the truck for new California plates. The transition took a long time. It took longer than getting a new driver’s license. It took longer than processing my voter registration. It took longer than securing my Golden Bear state parks pass.

This started in January when I drove to a smog check station. The truck passed, but the tech said he couldn’t find the number on the catalytic converter. I said it was repaired in Texas and had passed smog there for several years. He said that I might need to replace the converter. He wasn’t allowed to issue a smog certificate unless he could see that number or there was a sticker in the door frame from the smog referee.

Wut?

I took the truck to a repair shop and told them the sad story. The owner called me the next day to say that he’d called three reliable suppliers and couldn’t find another converter. The truck was just too old. He said maybe the smog referee could help.

This was the second time someone spoke of this magical wizard, smog referee.

About six weeks later, I drove to a hard-won appointment inside the auto shop classroom complex at Modesto Junior College. One of the instructors was a smog referee. He saw the problem right away: the catalytic converter was installed upside down. He said it needed to be reinstalled right-side up. After making that repair and replacing a pair of hoses, I could get on his dance card again.

That took another month. But as he applied the magical approval sticker inside the door frame, he explained why he was called a referee. I was playing the game right. But they had to call foul on the truck because the converter was upside down. Even though the techs likely did that to better clear the cage that keeps it from getting stolen, doing so also makes it more likely to start a grass fire. That’s also part of the game. People steal converters for the precious metals; other people install unauthorized converters. To be fair to those with antique autos or a repaired converter, especially newcomers like me, they call in a referee.

Victory in hand–or so I thought–I drove straight to the DMV to register. The title was still in Mark’s name. I collected the paperwork to transfer it to my name, but the agent refused. I told her I brought the paperwork on advice of another agent there. She said that agent was wrong. She said that I needed to fix this problem in Texas. I told her that I didn’t have a Texas address anymore, how could I possibly fix this? (That’s fraud prevention 101: States don’t issue vehicle titles to out-of-state residents, and titles don’t get forwarded in the mail.) She lost her temper and left the counter. I stood there, blinking back tears for several minutes while she pretended to do something a few desks away. She wasn’t escalating to a manager. She came back with a sticky note that had the main phone number for the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles. Gobsmacked, I left.

When I got home, I called the number. I would have laughed darkly, but I felt for those Texans who call and wonder whether any live person answers in that bureaucratic maze. I just couldn’t laugh. Eventually, I found my way to a state employee who decided to be the title referee that day. She came up with a Plan A and a Plan B to solve the problem.

A month later, the replacement title arrived via my son and daughter-in-law, who still live in Texas and where I “reside” when I visit.

Back to California DMV for my third time at bat. Just to put the best bow on the experience ever, the Modesto streets department closed nearly every route leading to the DMV yesterday. Only because of my many, many, many visits already did I manage to get into the parking lot from the one remaining back alley street entrance.

The agent who helped me yesterday must’ve seen something in my face. She looked and looked at that title. I tried not to panic. I told her I had to fly back to Texas to cure it–you all weren’t going to register the truck otherwise. She finally stopped looking and started typing.

Sam and I recently started sharing “the best thing that happened today” over dinner. I told him he might think that the best thing that happened today was getting California tags on the truck, which Sam cheered, of course. But actually the best thing was this: the DMV could have assessed five or six months worth of penalties and backdated the registration to December. But the agent quietly waived it all. A small gesture, but lovely nonetheless.