We’ve been waiting for four hours. Stuck between welfare users and child poppers. The black grime of addiction makes my shoes stick to the floor. I raise my voice just enough to carry over the crying children to trade numbers with the unemployed man next to me. A ten spot and six minutes later we’re at the counter.
The government toad croaks something unintelligible and locks her glassy eyes onto me. I dive in, “My friend here and I need papers, official documents.”
She looks down at the pile of forms that I’ve amassed on the counter. She apathetically slides them closer to her.
“You need to see a judge to do this.”
“Since when?” I ask.
“Since the beginning of time.” Fuck. Apparently this office has outlasted the Parthenon, the Mount, the motherfucking Light and the Word.
I summon my most authoritative stare. “Put me on the phone with the capitol.”
I wait on hold for 20 minutes for a 5 second reply, “You need to see a judge.”
I take back the papers, shove them into my duffle, and we move on to the next DMV.
After three more stops we finally land our new ID’s at a small office in the suburbs. Thank Moses everyone named Goldberg, as of now, is honest in the eyes of a mostly Jewish community.
With our new identities we are free. Ant and I jump in the cruiser and leave this godforsaken estuary behind.
Leave a Reply