DMV


 
 
 
 
 
 DMV
 Bentley Little
 Cemetery Dance Publications
 Baltimore
 2023
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Bentley Little
 
 
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
 
 
 Cemetery Dance Publications
 132-B Industry Lane, Unit #7
 Forest Hill, MD 21050
 http://www.cemeterydance.com
 
 
 The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
 Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
 
 
 ISBN-13: 978-1-58767-883-7
 
 
 Front Cover Artwork © 2023 by Elderlemon Design
 Digital Design by Dan Hocker
 
 
 
 ONE
 No one hated him more than his fans.
 As he always did after a new book was released, Todd Klein went online to check out reader reviews of the novel. There were only eight at the moment, and, as usual, none of them were kind. One stated simply that Across the Divide was the first and last book of his that the reviewer would ever read. Two lamented that while he had once been a good writer, lately his work had gone precipitously downhill. Three declared that his work was derivative of other, better authors. And two just flat-out trashed him, criticizing not only the new novel but his older ones, for being poorly written with flat characters and unbelievable plots, before announcing that they were no longer going to read any of his books. As in the past, he was tempted to sign in under a fake name and write a great review, contradicting everything that everyone else had said. But he was not really a computer guy and didn’t know how to disguise his identity, and the last thing he wanted was for someone to find out what he’d done and be publicly humiliated. 
 Todd sighed. Why did he let this online bullshit get to him? His last book had sold a hundred and fifty thousand copies, nearly twice as many as the one before it. That should have made him happy, but the fact that 130 of those 150,000 people had written online reviews, and 70 of those 130 had slammed him, had left Todd feeling depressed. It was a statistically insignificant number of readers, he knew, but that didn’t make any difference. He remembered hearing, years ago, that for every letter a U.S. senator received, it was assumed that a thousand other constituents felt exactly the same way. That was his belief as well. Most people, he figured, were too lazy to make an effort and comment on his work, but he had no doubt that a huge swath of them agreed with the sentiments expressed by those who did.
 Rosita walked in on him without warning, before he could toggle out of the screen, and saw immediately what was going on. “Stop reading those,” she said. 
 “I’m not,” he lied.
 “Then what are you doing?” She reached over his shoulder, moved the mouse and closed the tab.
 “I was just curious about what people are saying.”
 “Online people? You know what they’re saying. The same things they always say.”
 Todd didn’t respond.
 “Ignore those assholes,” his wife told him. “It got good reviews, it’s selling well. Do you really give a damn what Joe Blow from Kokomo, MO thinks about your book?”
 He raised an eyebrow. “‘Joe Blow from Kokomo, MO?’ Where’d you come up with that?”
 “You’re not the only creative one in the family.”
 He held up his hands. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re right. I shouldn’t waste my time.”
 She waited several seconds for him to continue. “But…?” she prodded.
 “But nothing.”
 She sighed. “It’s an addiction. That’s what it is. I should just cut off all internet acccess in this house.”
 He grinned up at her. “I’d still have my phone.”
 “You’re sick,” she told him. “You’re a masochist and you’re sick. Anyway, get ready. It’s time for dinner.”
 Todd ordinarily made their meals, since he was the one who worked at home, but when Rosita was off, she liked to cook, and he’d gotten spoiled over the past few weeks. Budget cuts had caused the county library to furlough a third of its workers, and during that time she’d been cooking up a storm. Tonight, she’d made shrimp gumbo from a recipe she’d found in an old Paul Prudhomme cookbook, and Todd was definitely going to miss this level of culinary sophistication when she went back to work next week. They’d probably have enough leftovers for a day or so, but after that it would be back to his usual rotation of spaghetti, tacos, burgers and chili.
 They ate, as always, at the dining room table while listening to the national news from the television in the living room.
 “I’m going out to lunch with Tori tomorrow, so you’ll be on your own,” Rosita told him during a commercial break. 
 “That’s fine.”
 “You can either heat up the gumbo, or there’s a leftover salmon quesadilla.”
 “Or I could make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”
 She grimaced. “Or that. By the way, what time’s your DMV appointment?”
 “Ten,” Todd said, irritated by just the thought of it.
 “Think you’ll even be out of there by lunchtime?”
 “Who knows?” The very idea of dealing with the DMV aggravated him. Not only had he had to get a smog check for his car earlier in the year, but now he actually had to go down to the office and take the written test in order to renew his license. He hadn’t had to take the test since first moving to the state, back when he started college. Since then, he’d received all of his license renewals through the mail. Unfortunately, he’d had two tickets this year, as well as a small