Came home from work about 7 on Monday. Picked up my mail and hopped in the elevator. On the way up I went through the envelopes, divining the contents: Bank statement, election propaganda, 'have you seen me?', and a thin envelope from the Department of Motor Vehicles. Hands full, i had to wait 'till I could dump everything in my apartment before opening the envelope.

To give a little background, my dealings with the DMV usually consist of me getting a registration renewal notice, putting it in a pile somewhere, and letting the due date go by, getting a second notice with late fees, trying to pay online, finding out I need a smog check, to pay an old ticket (or tickets), or both, then going in to the DMV in person to pay. My car's registration expires in April. Last year I didn't end up getting my little blue sticker until September.

I got this year's renewal notice about three weeks ago, and promptly went online and paid the fees. My sticker came in last week's mail, and it's now sitting happily affixed to my car, two months early.

This only added to my puzzlement over the envelope I clutched in the hand that wasn't unlocking the door. Did they make a mistake? Did they want more money? Did they want to give some back? It's been known to happen.

After dropping my backpack, coat, keys and energy inside the door, I open the envelope, extracting a single-sheet, block-type missive with "NOTICE" emblazoned coldly at the top of the page.

I read through the page, finding that it was a notification that the DMV had, based on my car's license plate, given my name and address to an attorney who was pursuing litigation against me. They went on to say that they only release addresses to licensed attorneys and only if the attorney requires the address in the course of a civil or criminal action.

They also included the attorney's name, address, and telephone number, helpfully suggesting that I get in touch with the individual to find out more.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuckitty-fuck-fuck-fuck.

I try to remember (as if I'd have forgotten) if I'd possibly damaged someone's car, or been a witness to an accident somewhere. If it were something like a red light or bridge toll (neither of which had I remembered running or evading, mind you) the state would have access to my address already, without having to go to an attorney to get the info from the DMV.

Could I have cut someone off without realizing it? Was their quick notice of my distinctive license plate the tie that brought this letter to my rapidly moistening hands? Could I have seriously hurt someone, or worse? Could I go to jail, my liberty forsook in an unknown moment?

I say again, for those who missed it: Fuck.

Then I think: I have only one plate. My front plate was stolen almost six months ago. I assumed it now adorns someone's cluttered dorm room or frat den, but maybe it's affixed instead to another person's car, and who knows what kind of red-light-running, demolition-derby-loving, hit-and-runner now wields my identity? Am I about to get a sense of exactly what kind of malfeasance he's been dishing out?

Still, there's work to be done. I have a name, and I have a phone number. I hop to the net.

A google search for the attorney's name turns up a handful of links, mostly to the odd East Bay court docket here and there. There are a couple links to conference guides, citing my personal Inspector Javert as a guest speaker, an expert in the field of post-traumatic stress disorder litigation. Did I cut someone off, and now I'm going to be taken to the cleaners for their resulting stress?

I've found pretty much all I'm going to, so I make the call, doubtful that 7:30 in the evening would find anyone in the Walnut Creek law office. Dialing... Busy.

I try again: Busy. Wait 5 minutes, dial, busy.

Okay, whatever. I don't think there's anyone there, and I know I won't be able to sleep with this uncertain fate looming over my head, so it's to Yahoo's People Search, to find a home number. Ahh, a single match, in Danville. Dialing...

"Hello?" The voice at the other end of the telephone couldn't have passed the bar, unless she had a few years head start on Doogie Hauser.

"Is Robert home?" I ask, polite. None of my trepidation showing through. Whether talking to him or his daughter, I know that lawyers can smell fear, and often mistake it for guilt.

"Yeah, just a second. Who is this?"

"Kevin Fox" Like the name will mean anything. He didn't even know my name until the DMV handed it to him. I'd have a better chance of recognition if I told her "Grr, Arg" was calling, but somehow I'd probably have a smaller chance of actually getting Robert on the phone.

"Just a minute..."

And then I had a talk with Robert...

...

I'm tempted to end the story there for a few reasons:

• So the reader would share some small idea of the suspense I felt throughout this eternal ten-minute ordeal.
• Because if I don't finish the story I don't have to look stupid at the end of it.

...

Yes, there was a 'civil action' being taken against me. Would I be going to jail? Would I have to spend my dotcom-hundreds on attorney and court costs, fighting a bitter battle for liberty? Um, no.

One morning about five weeks earlier, I neglected to leave a parking permit on my dash at the emeryville Amtrak station. This inaction set the wheels of litigation rolling so that Ampco, the private parking lot management company contracted by Amtrak, could mail me a ticket. "You'll be getting it within the next few days. You may have received it already." Yes. Yes I did a couple days before. I never thought about how they got my address.

I apologized for bothering him at home. Apologizing all at once for his good nature about being bothered at home by a stranger, apologizing by karmic proxy for the dozens of people who probably call him each month or year, terrified, irate, or both.

With a good-natured goodbye, Robert wished the DMV gave a little more detail about why the person wanted the address. I agree that would be nice, so that I wouldn't interrupt his dinner, and so I wouldn't lose an appetite for my own. G'night Robert. Have a good evening.

Then I went to the Starry Plough to dance it all off.