Earlier this month, I arrived in San Diego following five days of driving across the country from Wisconsin. I pulled into my friend’s driveway, brought my things inside, and went back to my car to park it on the street.
Almost immediately, a cop’s siren and flashing lights went off. I’d left my license in my friend’s apartment, so I was in trouble no matter what.
But I was in even more trouble because, the cop told me, my license had been suspended since September. My jaw dropped. “I take it from the look on your face that you didn’t know that,” the cop ventured.
No. I didn’t.
The state of California hadn’t gone to the trouble of telling me that it had suspended my license due to a $300 ticket from last summer – one I thought I’d already paid. I wasn’t able to pay it on time, but I did make good on it eventually. Including the late fee, it had cost me a grand total of $554.
This is where the nightmare really starts.