Phyl & Phil

by Tabitha Bill

Both born and raised in Boerum Hill,

Brought simultaneously into this world,

One a boy, the other a girl,

Baptized (metaphorically) Phyl and Phil.

Which, seeing, you’d say: “It does not confound.

But when whispered, or even cried,

It can lead to being identified 

Imprecisely, likely to compound 

Misidentification. For instance, take the case 

Of claiming your coffee at the store,

Making a restaurant reservation, or,

Having the wrong person take your place.

‘Twas at the DMV, Atlantic Avenue Mall,

Where they both went to renew their license.

One was for a motorbike, which makes sense,

Since they made a living delivering all 

The correspondence sent out from the Kings 

County Court in Brooklyn Heights.

The other one drove a light 

Truck, habitually laden with all things 

Desired by workers from offices,

When they take their lunchtime break.

The truck sold pasta, pizza and cake,

The last of which was packed in ornate boxes.

But, back to the DMV, for you see 

The names got called, and they each took 

Their license, but they didn't look

So carefully, just paid their fee.

After all, the picture was right, and the name

Seemed correct. Neither was asked.

Neither was given the specific task 

Of verifying in detail that this was the same 

License for which they'd submitted application.

And so they left each unaware,

Each having not one single care.

But fate did await in gleeful anticipation.

Now, we must advance several weeks,

During which Phyl and Phil went about 

Their business, which, no doubt,

Was their wont. But their feet 

Were about to be held to the fire,

As first one, and then the other 

Got themselves in a spot of bother 

During what should have been a routine tire 

Inspection. Normally it’s a simple matter of course,

But, on these precise occasions,

They both got into altercations. 

This made the simple matter considerably worse.

They were informed of their commission 

Of felonies. They were the same.

They revolved around a name 

In their licenses that was miswritten.

Said Phyl: “There's no way that can be.”

If there's an error, it's not mine.

The people that you need to fine 

Would be those bums at the DMV.”

Said Phil, more or less the same.

He didn't follow what was wrong.

That, therefore, was then the long 

And short of it. “It seems,” he said, “so lame.”

“But no,” said Sergeant Ahmed Nasser,

Coincidentally arresting officer in each case.

“You have no option but to face 

The prescribed penalty. It's a matter 

Serious enough for me potentially 

To withdraw your driving permission,

Which I assure you would not be a decision 

That I should take at all happily.”

“Then don't do it, man!” cried one,

Which the other later echoed precisely.

“Now, Sir or Madam, do come along nicely.”

And then, the Sergeant drew his gun.

No one got shot. All kept their cool.

Indeed, to remain succinct,

Phyl and Phil reported to the precinct 

Calmly. No one played the fool.

Not booked together, their reunion was yet to be,

Though Sergeant Nasser discerned a pattern 

Between the two offenses. He had sat on

Sufficient detective training courses to see

Linkages between this case and that,

Circumstances that were so similar.

It was almost as if he were familiar 

With both of these suspects. He reviewed the facts.

And so did Phyl and Phil, now côte-à-côte,

As they say in France, also in Quebec,

Causing them both at once to reflect 

On the previous time that fate provoked 

An encounter between them at the DMV.

There, in the midst of a mélée,

A mix up occurred, which was to lay 

The seeds of their alleged criminality.

So, what had precisely transpired  back then

To put them in jeopardy before the law?

Analyzing their individual memories, they saw

Precisely who, what, how, why and when.

Somehow, the license given to Phyl

Was not for the vehicle she was driving.

Instead, she received a document providing 

Permission for her to operate at will 

The very vehicle used by the other,

Hardly suitable for her own walk of life.

You can hardly cook and serve on a motorbike,

Even if you were to add on a cover.

And Phil, who delivered warrants and suits, 

Could hardly weave around all of the traffic 

That renders NYC roads ever static

In a truck decorated with pictures of food.

Thus, apart from the issue of tires lacking rubber,

Each had been caught in the possession 

Of a vehicle for which they did not have permission 

To be operating, and without proper insurance cover.

How could that be? Sergeant Nasser thought

Carefully through the facts of both cases.

He carefully examined the licenses: their faces,

Their names. These certificates ought

Not to have included such a simple error.

The first names were the same, bar an ‘i’ for a ‘y’. 

But so were the surnames, bar a ‘y’ for an ‘i’.

“Ms Miller,” said he. “Meet Ms Myller.”

And all charges were dropped, due to the Mayor’s order

That matters of law count always for less than good humor.

© Richard J J Bridle

brownhatstories.com