take a number

(Some of you may be familiar with the attention-seeking histrionics of Slate columnist John Dickerson.  In February of last year, Dickerson printed a column bemoaning the fact that no-one saw fit to subpoena him in the Grand Jury Investigation into the leaking of CIA agent Valerie Plame's name to the press.  Yesterday, he followed up with this post in which he recounts the heart-freezing terror of hearing his name uttered in court during Ari Fleischer's testimony, when he suddenly found himself thrust, apparently only semi-unwillingly, into the center of the court's attention.  It was, to hear him tell it, an ordeal beyond all comprehension, and resulted in the shaving of at least 90 precious seconds off of his full 15 minutes of fame.  Mr. Dickerson was kind enough to submit the following essay to FDL, which we have reprinted in full.  We are pleased and proud to offer this intimate look into the mind of such a stellar journalistic talent and consider it a "two-ton feather" in the cap of our coverage of the Libby trial.) 

I raised my hand and asked, "Ma'am?  May I approach the counter?"

"Did I call your number?" asked the matronly African-American woman sitting there at her computer beneath a giant "Click-It or Ticket" sign.

"No, ma'am," I replied.

"Then, no.  You may not," she said, going back to her typing.

I was at the DMV to get plates for my new BMW coupe.  And I had found, much to my astonishment, that I was almost to the front of the line!  My heart was in my throat.  I felt that all the eyes in the room were on me.  What should I do?  Wait my turn? Shout a question to the clerk on duty?  Should I walk from the line to cross behind the counter?  What, oh, what?

"Number 437!" called an older man at a desk further down the line.

"Number 437?!" I thought, "That's me!"

Then, my number was displayed on a big digital read-out at the front of the room.  The DMV workers had put it up there to identify (and apparently call attention to) me!  Yes, me, John Dickerson, former Time magazine White House correspondent, now relegated to emptying pencil sharpeners at Slate, graduate in good standing of St. Pompey's Boys Academy, Elmhurst, and Intrepid, Ultra-Hard-Hitting Reporter.  I am that John Dickerson, yes, I see you've heard of me!

And now my time had come.  There was no forestalling it.  It was time to go before the heartless Inquisitors of…the Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles!

With a sudden sick feeling, I realized that I had left my paperwork for my car's emissions test on my friend Tad's coffee table in Georgetown.  Shock!  Horror!  Oh, woe!  Fie upon me!

"Sir?" It was the matronly woman again, "Are you number 437?"

I didn't know what to say.  Again, all eyes in the room were upon me.  This was my moment.  And I didn't have my emissions sticker!  Curse the luck!  All is ashes!  I am but half a man…

"Sir?  You're holding up the line.  Are you holding number 437 or not?"

"No!" I shouted, "I mean, yes!  But…"

Should I tell the truth?  Should I pretend that I already gave them my emissions test?  Should I say that my car's emissions are confidential and protected by auto-journalistic privilege?  Would these government-worker plebes buy it?

"Sir?" she was merciless, this DMV gorgon, "Sir?  If you are number 437, please come to the counter.  Otherwise, please step aside.  A lot of people are waiting."

"But-!" I cried, "I-!"

Now the older guy from down the row was getting involved.  "Are you number 437 or not?" he churlishly demanded.

And that, I am ashamed to say, was when I snapped.

"I'm not just a number!" I shouted into their stunned, bovine faces, "I'm John Dickerson!  I went to really good schools!  Really, really good schools!  I wrote for Time!  I almost got subpoenaed in the Libby trial!  That trial's not about Matt Cooper at all!  Or Ari freaking Fleischer or even Judy Effing Miller!  It's about ME!  ME, ME, ME!!  It's all about ME!  Why can't anybody fucking understand that?!"

I realized with a prick of shame that tears were pouring heavily down my sweating visage. 

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to step outsi-"

"Screw you!  I hate you!  I hate all of you and your…ass faces!  I'm important!  My mom was a trail-blazing investigative journalist!"

That was when the woman behind the counter got ugly with me.  "Are you that Jonah Goldberg fool?" she demanded, starting to come out from behind the counter, "I oughta kick your narrow white behind.  I got your 'colorblind society' right here, you scrawny-"

And that was when I ran away, away.  Away from that smothering little room, away from the stupefied expressions of the other people in line, away from the fluorescent lights, just away, out into the blinding afternoon.

I die.  I die.  

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