Blue Jays 3, Yankees 2

Today: the marriage license.

Easy, or so we thought.

The Harris county website lists 1001 Preston, downtown Houston, as the location of the county clerk for such as what we wanted. So, this afternoon, it was into the car and into downtown, to the only portion of the metropolis, which extends into six counties, where parking is a serious hassle.

Zing--a parking meter a mere two hundred yards from 1001 Preston. Enough coins for 44 minutes.

Into 1001 Preston, a building I remember from my once-a-year trips to renew my car registration.

County Clerk, such as marriage licenses, three flights up.

Elevator, up to the fourth floor.

Big Sign: COUNTY CLERK RELOCATED TO THE SO-AND-SO BUILDING, MAY, 2006.

One year earlier.

And no change on the website. Or the building legend. Nothing but a woman sitting at a desk in an open front office, presumably for nothing but to serve as the first line of information for those who rely on the website and building legend.

"It's at the so-and-so building," she explains. "Down to the first floor, then go out that back of the building, then over to the blah-blah Street, then down to Caroline Street. The building looks like this."

In front of her on the counter, a laminated picture of the new building. Look over her shoulder, out the big picture window, see the exact same building, three blocks away.

"But nothing's changed on the website," I say.

Laughter. "You know," she says, "everyone says that."

So, out on the street. Unlike New York City's mid-town, Houston has no famous buildings to point out. Unlike San Diego, the weather is nothing to enjoy, except in October or the marvelous stretch between Valentine's Day and Easter. Late May, just sweat.

So, into the So-and-So building.

County Clerk, third floor.

Out the elevator, and arrow.

Information. Okay, information.

Astro-Girl: "How much money did we put in the meter?"

"Enough."

Ah-Hah! Below Information, a sign on the wall, and this list:

COPIES
Something
Deed something
Something
Marriage Licenses

So, end of the line.

Ten minutes, front of the line. The best line-related word: Next.

"Yes?" asks the woman, one of a dozen who seem, behind the counter, to be walking at the bottom of a filled swimming pool.

"Marriage license," I say.

She gives us the once-over. "So when were you married?"

"No," I say. "We need a marriage license."

"Well then you're in the wrong place," she drawls.

"But," I start, "It says . . ."

"Copies," she says. "Copies of marriage licenses that already exist. You need to go to the other end of the building, turn left past the elevators, then take a blah-blah turn and blah-blah-blah."

So, office number three. Behind us in line, after a few seconds, a pair of men.

"You know," I said to one of them, "the signage in this building is terrible."

He answered in a West-Indian dialect:

"What you be sayin'. I go to eighth floor they say fourth floor, fourth floor they say third floor."

Finally, after being ushered to a desk, presenting our driver's licenses, swearing that we had never been married before, were not married, and were neither delinquent in child support nor related by blood or adoption, 41 dollars later, the license was ours.

"There," the woman said. "That was easy."

Saturday. Three days to go.