The man handling my car through the VEIP test facility in Resisterstown was middle-aged, pudgy, with a creased, scarred, and pocked face, yellowing eyes and teeth, straggly hair, and the odor of cigarettes and alcohol about him. Even so, I forced myself to resist the overwhelming urge to throw my arms around him and proclaim my undying love for him when he handed me a sheet of paper from the printer and said, “Your car passed.”

Even better? When I picked my car up from Ed’s, the guy who greeted me looked through the computer, then said, “Ed doesn’t have a ticket for you … here’s the key. Call us later and see if he’s charging you anything.”

I haven’t called yet — just got home — but I think Gary might’ve put some motivation into Ed on my behalf. Something like, “Look dude, I need him to be able to work, kapeesh?”