During the license suspension fiasco, when I was driving the Governor to and from work, there was a particular day that I knew I was going to be at least a half an hour late. As I was leaving Providence, I called his house and spoke with his wife. “Could you tell him that I’m going to be late?” I asked. “I don’t want him to be waiting at the end of the driveway for an hour.” (That’s what he’d do, by the way—wait at the end of the driveway, clutching his bag, looking like a schoolboy waiting for the bus. And then, as he’d get into the car, he’d cheerfully report how long he’d been waiting, so I’d feel bad about being so late. A real gem, that guy.)

It took me almost exactly a half an hour to get there, but I’d warned his wife that it might be as much as 45 minutes, just to be safe. When I got there, I got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and knocked.

Nothing.

I waited a few minutes, then rang the doorbell. Being that he's mostly deaf, knocking would be louder, but I supposed that I didn’t know where in the house he was.

Nothing.

I called his wife, who hadn’t arrived at work yet, and left a message for her to call me—had she dropped him off on campus and forgotten to tell me?—and then thought to call the house, to tell him I was outside.

As my cell phone rang, I realized I could actually hear his phone ringing inside the house. Leaning closer, I realized I could also hear the television on. And, squinting hard enough to see through the gauzy white curtains in the windows that were on either side of the door, I recognized the unmistakable outline of the Governor, sitting on the couch, completely ignoring the phone.

“GOVERNOR,” I yelled, knocking on the door while ringing the doorbell with the other hand.

Nothing.

Completely out of ideas—I thought to kick the door to make a louder noise, but had a terrible mental image of somehow ruining something on the door and having to apologize for it—I walked down to my car and called my mother. As I explained my predicament to her and asked what she thought I should do, she could hardly contain her laughter. “Oh, Sarah,” she said finally, “I have no idea.”

As she erupted with more laughter, I looked up to see the Governor walking triumphantly down the stairs. “I’ll call you later,” I said crossly to my mother, closed my phone, and looked up at the Governor. “I’ve been knocking and ringing your doorbell for fifteen minutes!” I exclaimed. “I even tried calling the house—how loud did you have that TV up? I can’t believe you didn’t hear ANY of that.”

He looked at me, a defiant smile taking over his face. “I know,” he said obnoxiously, “but you told [my wife] that it would take you 45 minutes to get here. So, I thought I’d give you that full 45 minutes, just in case.”

I will not kick an 87 year old in the shins. I will not kick an 87 year old in the shins. I will not kick an 87 year old in the shins.

Later, at the office, he came up to my desk with a gleeful grin on his face. “Look at this!” He exclaimed, thrusting a piece of paper in my face. I took it and looked it over—attached to it was a drivers’ license.

“What...” I said slowly.

“It’s my drivers license!” He crowed. “I lost it before my driving test, and they sent me a new one! Now—how can they say that I don’t have my license when I have this one, right here?”

He was waiting for me to agree, congratulate him. I didn’t do that, but I also didn’t explain to him that when your license is suspended, they don’t physically take the piece of plastic—and it doesn’t matter if you have it; if you’re pulled over, on a suspended license, they will run your records and, license or no license in hand, they will note that you are legally not to be driving.

“Here you go,” I said as I handed it back. He gave me a trademarked “you are so rude to not be happy for me about this” look and stormed away.

I don’t know if he ever tried driving with that license. I suppose it would be nice to add “I warned him” here, but really, it was a lot less stressful to just go into his office later, and hide that piece of paper.