I love the long, zigzagging hallway, the barren decor. The beige linoleum floor and the outlets saying do not use. Each number called starts with a frightening burst of feedback. I was 987.
The man on the other side of the window looked so bored I thought he was going to turn me down and send me home. For no reason. Only that it was the only appropriate gesture for someone so radically detached from what he’s doing. He asked me for this, he asked for that. Jackie’s passport. Mine. I sat at the edge of the chair and wondered if this was a mistake. I need to recalibrate my posture, my speech, I thought, to better match his affect. I eased back an inch or two.
“Here’s your receipt,” he said suddenly. “I suggest you keep it. You’ll get the card in seven to ten business days.”
I thanked him, what’s the word. Not warmly. Emphatically. I gathered up my things, the birth certificate, the passports. Trying not to linger. And then I turned around and walked away.