No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk by Tamar Myers Page A

make a difference? You Yoders—”
    “Yes?” I am five-ten, and I was wearing a winter coat. If I stand straight and extend my arms slightly at the sides I can make most men back off, or at least move aside.
    Marvin was unmoved. “You have a record?”
    “Just hymns,” I said. “But not with me.”
    “Driver’s license?”
    “I walked.” Perhaps I was being a mite difficult, but the man was blocking my access to the door and I was beginning to feel like a caged animal. Even a docile cow can get belligerent when cornered.
    “I asked to see your driver’s license,” Marvin hissed. He tapped the badge on his chest authoritatively. “You have to show it to me.”
    “Why?”
    Marvin’s right arm moved, and for a split second I thought he was going to reach for the gun in his holster, but instead he took off his sheriff’s cap. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.
     

Chapter Thirteen
    Sheriff Marvin Stoltzfus possessed the biggest ears, bar none, that I had ever seen on a human being.
    They were as big as saucers, and could only have been folded beneath that regulation cap. Suddenly unfettered, the ears trembled and swayed, apparently adjusting themselves to their new environment.
    He scratched the top of his head. “I said, give me your license.”
    Obediently I opened my purse, fished out my wallet, and thrust my license at him. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him after all. Perhaps a look at my DMV mug shot would boost his self-esteem, thereby improving his mood. After all, for years a number of states have been using Pennsylvania driver’s license pictures as antidepressants.
    My Ohio friends tell me that they have a somewhat humane DMV. They claim it is possible to get their license, complete with photo, at one place, on the same day. Coming from Pennsylvania, I find that hard to believe. The Q1regulations for our DMV were written by the Marquis de Sade and are enforced by refugees from Singapore. These cane-carrying curmudgeons are committed to carrying out arcane and complicated canons.
    For instance, in Pennsylvania we must apply for our licenses at a police barracks. This isn’t a dormitory for cops, but a vast torture chamber where you wait in line to find out which line to wait in. Then you apply for your license and take a test. If you pass the test you are given a photo application, which you must then send off to Harrisburg, the state capital, and they will mail you (by U.S. Snail) notification of where you must get your photo taken. Invariably the place noted is the police barracks, where you started out to begin with.
    It is my understanding that the employees who man the cameras are highly trained psychopaths with degrees from Libyan universities. It is their job to anticipate that exact second when their customers yawn, belch, grimace, blink—you get the picture. Unfortunately.
    Marvin Stoltzfus actually smiled when he saw my picture. His ears, which were lined with more veins than my Aunt Clara’s legs, and almost as fuzzy as her cheeks, flushed pink with pleasure. He didn’t, however, become any nicer.
    “It doesn’t show your weight here, or your height. How do I know it’s you?”
    I sighed deeply. Then I obliged him by twisting my face into a grimace that would have put the fear of God into the devil himself. It was really rather easy to do, what with Lizzie Troyer’s supper to look forward to that night.
    “All right.” He handed the license back. “Now what can I do for you?”
    “Nothing,” I said. “I’m lost. I was looking for the telephone company. I need to pay a bill.” Of course, I instantly realized how stupid that was, considering he’d seen my Pennsylvania license.
    And Marvin was no Melvin. “Care to try again, Miss Yoder?”
    “There’s no defense like a good offense,” Susannah is fond of saying. Of course, she applies that philosophy to eligible men. But it seemed plausible that it could work on a Stoltzfus as well.
    “I’m here to