Monday, September 17, 2018
Ways of Getting
Things had gone well.
My documents in order.
Trencher Osgood proved
silently efficient, showing
me three views of my face.
Equally awful.
Chose the first, pop-eyed
rendition.
“Friends’ll laugh,” bit off Osgood.
But since the Merriweathers and
Henslaws moved, I had none.
I didn’t say this last, but he replied
to it anyway, “Nothing to me!”
Whereupon all the computers
in all the cubicles slammed off,
as if cued by the lady on crutches
in fluorescent Daffy Duck Pajamas
now dragging herself into our cubicle.
Hissing “You DARE come here again!”
All the computers snapped to half-power,
with Patriot Boys singing The Battle
Hymn of the Republic.
Hymn of the Republic.
In the sickly light, Osgood’s face turned
hatefully furrowed. The woman screamed “How about our little daughter? Dreaming of playing
Field Hockey for Bryn Mawr College?”
Field Hockey for Bryn Mawr College?”
“I don’t KNOW you!” screamed I back.
Mr Osgood’s face became instantly caring
in palpable affection.
in palpable affection.
“You must! To escape from here!”
“I LOVE OUR DAUGHTER!” I told
the whole department then.
Mums brought: red for Ms Daffy Duck,
yellow for me.
At any rate, seven hundred dollars
later, I was home with an honorary
Field Hockey stick, highly highly
varnished.
And my new driver’s license.
Labels: bureaucracy, bureaucratic nightmare, Driver's License, Field Hockey
