Fleeing the Country
Saturday, January 23, 2010 at 4:49pm
My phone rang at 9:45 this morning. I growled.
"Come on, we need to get our passports done this morning," Rex said. "Meet us at Walgreen's by 11."
More growling. I had been dreaming that I was taking a shower in some stranger's house, rushing to get done and sneak out before they discovered me. In this dream I was very thin, attractive and had dreadlocks. I wanted to go back to sleep to discover why I had dreadlocks. Maybe it was that half a cupcake I'd eaten last night.
I have always wanted a passport. Having one implies that you are going somewhere -- or at least that it's a possibility. Besides, you never know when you may be forced to flee the country.
(It could happen. Rush Limbaugh could become president in a right wing coup and all us liberals -- or smokers -- could be rounded up and shot, or sent to re-education camps for an all-expenses paid water-boarding weekend. One should be prepared.)
Walgreen's was the first stop for the necessary photos. Like all fat people, I hate having my photo taken, but especially now when my face is still recovering from that rash.
The guy at Walgreen's advised us not to smile, and I figured it's because they want you to look the way you will look when you've spent two hours in line at Customs, trying not to look or act like a drug mule or terrorist. I have this unreasonable fear that they will find out about that "Yield" sign I stole in 1982 and not let me back in. I'll have to live in Canada next door to Celine Dion for the rest of my life, eh.
I was amused when, after his frequent reminders to me about bringing my birth certificate, Rex realized he had not brought his own birth certificate, and neither had Patti. I did my best not to smirk while they ran home to retrieve proof of their being born on American asphalt. I spent some quality time admiring the ShamWows, Strap-Perfects, Bump-its and the other "AS SEEN ON TV" merchandise while I waited for our photos to be ready. I considered buying some of that Miracle Super Putty but decided to wait, since my birthday is coming up.
Finally, our mug shots in hand, we proceeded to the post office. Filling out forms, standing in line... oh, this is the way to spend a Saturday morning!
Suddenly I became an ugly American, a little concerned about just how many of the people standing in line with us DID look like drug mules and terrorists. Then I told myself it's only natural that people from other countries would be in the majority of those needing passports. Still... they got here somehow, didn't they? Shouldn't the swarthy man behind me wearing white pajamas and a little macrame beanie on his head already have a passport?
We were still trying to read all the tiny print on the signs plastered on the door, over the heads of burka-wearing women in front of us, when the woman inside made an impatient gesture indicating we were up.
Yes, my friends, I was about to meet.... the Passport Nazi. A thin woman in a lime green shirt who apparently hates her job even more than I do.
She took one look at Patti's form and said -- in a tone you would use to rebuke a dog that had piddled on the carpet: "You filled this out in blue ink. It has to be in black ink."
NO PASSPORT FOR YOU!
"I'm sorry," Patti said. "I didn't realize...."
"It's stated clearly on the signs outside," the woman said. "If you had taken the time to read them, you would have known."
Patti and Rex scurried away to redo their forms. I swallowed hard, held my breath, and stepped up to the counter.
"I need your properly filled-out form, your birth certificate," she said in a rapid drone, not making eye contact -- obviously because I was little more than a bug on the windshield of her life. "Your driver's license, a copy of your driver's license -"
"A copy of my driver's license?" I parroted stupidly.
She paused just long enough to twitch her lips in some involuntary spasm of disapproval. If I had had a tail, it would've been between my legs.
"Do I need to go get a copy?" I stammered, my heart sinking.
"We can make a copy," she said. "There's a charge of 50 cents."
I would have been relieved not to be bounced from the line, but it was obvious that reaching for the desktop copier at her left was an enormous inconvenience, a favor reserved only for foreign dignitaries or George Clooney.
"You didn't fill out question #20," she said.
Ohmigod, she's going to eat me, I thought.
Question #20 asked for an additional contact phone number. I have no other phone number but my cell. I am afraid to tell her this. Instead, I wrote down Rex's cell phone number. If I hadn't been able to remember his number, I would have made one up.
Over my shoulder she was aiming her laser-death-eyes on a child cheerfully turning the lock on the door back and forth.
"Please stop that," she said. "I got locked in here once because some child broke the lock and we had to have it replaced."
I was seized by a sudden panic, certain she would know that I was not entirely sure of my mother's birth date. For some reason, I can never remember whether it's November 3rd or 4th. I think I get it confused with Election Day.
"Hand me your photos OUT of the folder, please." I had never heard the word "please" uttered with such a lack of sincerity. I wondered if I've been using the word incorrectly all my life.
But I scrambled to pry the two small ugly photos from the folder.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed with some annoyance that the line beside me was being administered by a cheerful man in a US Postal Service uniform. He was taking the photo of a potential drug mule -- a giggling twenty-something female -- with a smile and assured her that her photo -- produced in mere seconds -- was actually quite flattering. It wasn't fair. Why had Karma delivered me to the Nightmare-Life-in-Death of the Passport Office?
The drug mule's boyfriend was tempting fate, asking the Passport Nazi how long it would take to receive his passport, even though he was clearly not in her line.
"Five to six weeks, if there is no problem with your application," she said with a glimmer of malice, as if she doubted he would ever gain clearance to leave the country. "That information is posted on the door. All of this information is posted on the door."
I noticed with some alarm that she was stapling my fragile, faded and tattered birth certificate to the application.
"You're keeping my birth certificate?" I asked timidly.
"It will be returned to you by mail when your passport is processed."
I wanted to say something about the wisdom of entrusting the most important piece of paper in my life to the government, but didn't dare. I just bid an anxious adieu to proof my existence and hoped for the best.
"You need to make one payment of $75 by check or money order, made out to the US State Department," she said. "And a second payment of $25 made out to the US Postal Service."
"Does that need to be check as well?" I asked. I felt a little foolish writing a check to the State Department on South Park checks, but it couldn't be helped.
"The second payment can be made any way you want," she said, as if daring me to get creative. I wrote a second check.
Then she asked for my signature and I realized we were done. I had made it. I would not be sent home soupless.
Unless, of course, there is a problem with processing my application, such as the Passport Nazi deciding to accidently knock it into the shredder, just for giggles. I can only hope that she does not have a twin sister working Customs the day I attempt to cross a foreign border.
My phone rang at 9:45 this morning. I growled.
"Come on, we need to get our passports done this morning," Rex said. "Meet us at Walgreen's by 11."
More growling. I had been dreaming that I was taking a shower in some stranger's house, rushing to get done and sneak out before they discovered me. In this dream I was very thin, attractive and had dreadlocks. I wanted to go back to sleep to discover why I had dreadlocks. Maybe it was that half a cupcake I'd eaten last night.
I have always wanted a passport. Having one implies that you are going somewhere -- or at least that it's a possibility. Besides, you never know when you may be forced to flee the country.
(It could happen. Rush Limbaugh could become president in a right wing coup and all us liberals -- or smokers -- could be rounded up and shot, or sent to re-education camps for an all-expenses paid water-boarding weekend. One should be prepared.)
Walgreen's was the first stop for the necessary photos. Like all fat people, I hate having my photo taken, but especially now when my face is still recovering from that rash.
The guy at Walgreen's advised us not to smile, and I figured it's because they want you to look the way you will look when you've spent two hours in line at Customs, trying not to look or act like a drug mule or terrorist. I have this unreasonable fear that they will find out about that "Yield" sign I stole in 1982 and not let me back in. I'll have to live in Canada next door to Celine Dion for the rest of my life, eh.
I was amused when, after his frequent reminders to me about bringing my birth certificate, Rex realized he had not brought his own birth certificate, and neither had Patti. I did my best not to smirk while they ran home to retrieve proof of their being born on American asphalt. I spent some quality time admiring the ShamWows, Strap-Perfects, Bump-its and the other "AS SEEN ON TV" merchandise while I waited for our photos to be ready. I considered buying some of that Miracle Super Putty but decided to wait, since my birthday is coming up.
Finally, our mug shots in hand, we proceeded to the post office. Filling out forms, standing in line... oh, this is the way to spend a Saturday morning!
Suddenly I became an ugly American, a little concerned about just how many of the people standing in line with us DID look like drug mules and terrorists. Then I told myself it's only natural that people from other countries would be in the majority of those needing passports. Still... they got here somehow, didn't they? Shouldn't the swarthy man behind me wearing white pajamas and a little macrame beanie on his head already have a passport?
We were still trying to read all the tiny print on the signs plastered on the door, over the heads of burka-wearing women in front of us, when the woman inside made an impatient gesture indicating we were up.
Yes, my friends, I was about to meet.... the Passport Nazi. A thin woman in a lime green shirt who apparently hates her job even more than I do.
She took one look at Patti's form and said -- in a tone you would use to rebuke a dog that had piddled on the carpet: "You filled this out in blue ink. It has to be in black ink."
NO PASSPORT FOR YOU!
"I'm sorry," Patti said. "I didn't realize...."
"It's stated clearly on the signs outside," the woman said. "If you had taken the time to read them, you would have known."
Patti and Rex scurried away to redo their forms. I swallowed hard, held my breath, and stepped up to the counter.
"I need your properly filled-out form, your birth certificate," she said in a rapid drone, not making eye contact -- obviously because I was little more than a bug on the windshield of her life. "Your driver's license, a copy of your driver's license -"
"A copy of my driver's license?" I parroted stupidly.
She paused just long enough to twitch her lips in some involuntary spasm of disapproval. If I had had a tail, it would've been between my legs.
"Do I need to go get a copy?" I stammered, my heart sinking.
"We can make a copy," she said. "There's a charge of 50 cents."
I would have been relieved not to be bounced from the line, but it was obvious that reaching for the desktop copier at her left was an enormous inconvenience, a favor reserved only for foreign dignitaries or George Clooney.
"You didn't fill out question #20," she said.
Ohmigod, she's going to eat me, I thought.
Question #20 asked for an additional contact phone number. I have no other phone number but my cell. I am afraid to tell her this. Instead, I wrote down Rex's cell phone number. If I hadn't been able to remember his number, I would have made one up.
Over my shoulder she was aiming her laser-death-eyes on a child cheerfully turning the lock on the door back and forth.
"Please stop that," she said. "I got locked in here once because some child broke the lock and we had to have it replaced."
I was seized by a sudden panic, certain she would know that I was not entirely sure of my mother's birth date. For some reason, I can never remember whether it's November 3rd or 4th. I think I get it confused with Election Day.
"Hand me your photos OUT of the folder, please." I had never heard the word "please" uttered with such a lack of sincerity. I wondered if I've been using the word incorrectly all my life.
But I scrambled to pry the two small ugly photos from the folder.
In the corner of my eye, I noticed with some annoyance that the line beside me was being administered by a cheerful man in a US Postal Service uniform. He was taking the photo of a potential drug mule -- a giggling twenty-something female -- with a smile and assured her that her photo -- produced in mere seconds -- was actually quite flattering. It wasn't fair. Why had Karma delivered me to the Nightmare-Life-in-Death of the Passport Office?
The drug mule's boyfriend was tempting fate, asking the Passport Nazi how long it would take to receive his passport, even though he was clearly not in her line.
"Five to six weeks, if there is no problem with your application," she said with a glimmer of malice, as if she doubted he would ever gain clearance to leave the country. "That information is posted on the door. All of this information is posted on the door."
I noticed with some alarm that she was stapling my fragile, faded and tattered birth certificate to the application.
"You're keeping my birth certificate?" I asked timidly.
"It will be returned to you by mail when your passport is processed."
I wanted to say something about the wisdom of entrusting the most important piece of paper in my life to the government, but didn't dare. I just bid an anxious adieu to proof my existence and hoped for the best.
"You need to make one payment of $75 by check or money order, made out to the US State Department," she said. "And a second payment of $25 made out to the US Postal Service."
"Does that need to be check as well?" I asked. I felt a little foolish writing a check to the State Department on South Park checks, but it couldn't be helped.
"The second payment can be made any way you want," she said, as if daring me to get creative. I wrote a second check.
Then she asked for my signature and I realized we were done. I had made it. I would not be sent home soupless.
Unless, of course, there is a problem with processing my application, such as the Passport Nazi deciding to accidently knock it into the shredder, just for giggles. I can only hope that she does not have a twin sister working Customs the day I attempt to cross a foreign border.
