The Deal (pt. 4)

July 7th, 2025 – was this the day? Would I be driving home a new-to-me RV, or would I show up and find an abandoned vehicle graveyard, minus the one vehicle I was interested in, and down several thousand dollars?

Once more, Franklin and I woke up early (to us) and drove, yet again, across the state. I pulled into Schrodinger’s Fae Graveyard, and as I came around the corner through the gate, I breathed a sigh of relief to see the now-familiar giant white box sitting on the asphalt near the office (that I had never once noticed on any prior visit) in the sun with Jack wiping his hands on a rag.

The RV was plugged in to a regular household outlet, so it had a little bit of power to run things like the lights but not enough to power the air conditioning or the awning or slideouts, so we still had not tested any of those things. But he showed us the handful of other things that he had merely told us about before but could not demonstrate without power.

I finally guided the men towards the car with the intent of handling the title transfer down at the DMV. Fortunately, it was only a few miles away. Jack got in line and Franklin and I waited. And waited. And waited.

Eventually it occurred to us that I should get in line even though Jack was not done. Whenever he finished his title transfer from the previous owner to him, I would already be in the queue for him to transfer the title to me. So I got in line and waited. And waited. And waited. While waiting, I got really hungry, so I made a Taco Bell order for all 3 of us from the line and sent Franklin outside to pick it up. #LivingInTheFuture.

Finally, I got up to the Threshold Guardian, the gatekeeper of the first Test where I had to successfully explain our quest and beg for safe passage onto the next level. Eventually I was able to make her understand that I was there for a title transfer, but that the person transferring the title to me had to transfer the title to himself first and was already inside awaiting his turn. People seem to have a hard time understanding that the person I’m buying a vehicle from had not completed the purchase of that same vehicle from the previous owner himself yet.

When she figured out the situation, instead of awarding me with my own call number, she said I should just join Jack in the next lobby and go with him to the counter and do both of our title transfers under the same number. I passed the First Threshold and moved to the next chamber.

Inside, I found Jack sitting in a lobby that was overflowing with lost souls. Much like the quiet desperation of the Beetlejuice underworld but with significantly less interesting characters. I approached Jack, leaned down to mutter the new plan of me going with him to the counter, and then opened up the folding camp chair that I had slung over my shoulder.

You see, I have been dealing with the Unseelie Court, um, I mean the United States Department of Motor Vehicles, for many decades now. I am very well aware of their lower level tricks to create unease in those who dare to petition them for privileges, including the obnoxiously long wait times and lack of available seating. I grabbed my camp chair out of the car when we first arrived and used it to sit in the outer lobby, in the line for the Threshold Guardian, and now in the inner court.

Time passed, or perhaps didn’t pass at all (always hard to tell in the land of the fae) and our number was eventually called. Jack approached the window and began to explain his purpose. I stood a step or two back and let him do his thing, not really paying attention because I expected delays and confusion. At some point, Franklin was admitted inside to deliver our food, which I immediately ate while standing at the counter because I am frequently disdainful of bureaucracy. If they are going to insist on this long, Byzantine process that extends past meal times, I will bring my chairs and my meals in with me.

While eating and standing and waiting, I looked mostly at my phone but also around the room. Standing behind our clerk was a security guard that they must have gotten from Central Casting, because you don’t get more “security guard” than this guard. He was tall, perhaps 6 feet or so, with biceps bigger than my head bulging out from under the cuff of his short sleeved polo shirt, wearing all black, with a black billed cap perched on his dirty blond curly mullet. Yes, he had an actual mullet, which I could verify when he took his cap off to run his hand through his hair and reset it. The mullet matched the 1970s-era porn ‘stache. Under the full soup strainer, he looked maybe 20 years old.

After messaging Franklin out in the waiting room about the Central Casting security guard (who turned out to be the guard who let him past the wards and barriers to deliver our food), I started paying attention to find out what the hold-up was.

The clerk didn’t seem to want to process the title transfer without the seller being present because there was some kind of typo on the title. Jack gently asked about alternatives and the clerk grudgingly suggested some kind of power of attorney or certification verifying that he was who he said he was and that the seller was who he said he was and that the seller really did intend to sell the vehicle to the buyer.

Jack deflated and backed up a step, not sure what to do now and sure that he had just been stymied. So I stepped up and said “so this Bill of Sale here will not work as the proof you’re looking for?” The clerk blinked at me as if he didn’t realize I wasn’t a pet of some sort and had just become a person in front of him. I repeated myself, and he said “oh, yeah, that will work!” Apparently, he was not aware that Jack had a bill of sale with him and Jack did not think to offer it because it was not the specific set of words that the clerk had used.

With that final hurdle cleared, the title was transferred into Jack’s name and the clerk looked as if to dismiss us. So I stepped up again and said “great, now we can transfer it into my name!” The clerk paused for only a moment as if thinking “shit, I was hoping they’d forget that part because I was doing my best to look like I had forgotten that part”, and began the second title transfer. Whatever took so long and required 3 trips by the clerk to some back room for “verification” was apparently not necessary this time and we both signed and dated and initialed and finally the title was in my name.

I handed Jack a bank envelope full of cash and a copy of the bill of sale that we had Jill sign, and we fled the Unseelie Court, I mean the DMV. We had to stop back at Jill’s house down the street to pick up a tool that John had left, but then onward we went.

Back at the vehicle graveyard, Jack got out his tools and rags and bottles and pans, and got back to work to bleed the brakes as agreed on. Franklin sat in the car, his Portland blood and skin unable to handle the Florida sun and humidity. I sat on the tongue of a tow dolly for a boat that will likely never see the water again, close enough to offer assistance if needed and far enough away to not appear as though I was overseeing his work, and I surfed on my phone.

Time passed, or perhaps it didn’t, and just when I was about to give up offer to come back another day, Jack slid out from under the RV and announced that he was done. There was some kind of problem with one of the brakes and he couldn’t open it to bleed it of air, but he eventually got it (he thought) and put everything back together and it was ready.

Franklin took my keys and I took the massive keyring with more keys than a plumber from Central Casting has ever carried, and I climbed up into the rig. I found the ignition key, inserted it, turned it, and the engine purred. I eased the beast through the narrow gate, down the gravel road, and onto the asphalt. It was really coming home with me!

Did I successfully navigate a deal with the fae for a chariot, or was this just the beginning of my trials? Anyone who has ever owned an RV knows the answer to this question.