White Leather and Flawed Pearls by Susan Altstatt

Author:Susan Altstatt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Rock Stars, rock ‘n roll, weddings, marriage, trilogies, LGBTQ
ISBN: 978-1-56474-8164
Publisher: SCB Distributors
Published: 2017-11-04T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

Monday, August 25. 9:00 a.m.

A maritime sun sheds salty light and little warmth, while wind and trash and seagulls whip around the corners. It makes a body feel like running, but we walk, half a mile down Second from the rented car (parked under a Bay Bridge on-ramp), to the corner of Market and the building, great gaunt futuristic overwhelmer, stainless steel, black tile, glass as black as Darth Vader’s goggles: a sci-fi locale for social injustice. Things get marginally more humane above the escalators.

There is a photo place; we pass it. I already have mine.

School pics were handy for turning into manifestos, about the only fun I ever saw in the whole exercise. For senior yearbook all the rah-rahs hire their own photographers to take these glamour shots. So I went to the school hack with the rest of the guys, wearing one of Papa’s shirts, loose tie, big hair and a truculent expression, like some lanky little deathrock person dressed up too civilly for his convictions. Not very satisfactory at the time; it turned out much too normal. Just (in fact) like a passport photo.

But imagine our entrance now, Harlan in his tweeds, hair neatly minimized, me in my black Levi’s, black Nikes, and dead-black Pendleton with the holey elbows, into that office: into a compacted jam of third-world bodies, a winding queue, a human Wall of China, confined by vinyl ropes on weighted stainless stands. At the tail of the dragon, a pushy red-lozenge sign demands, Enter Here. Another reads,

U.S. Passport Fees:

All minors under 18 must use

DSP 11. Fee is $27.

15 year validity.

All adults using DSP 11

fee is $42. 10 year validity.

Adults qualified to use

DSP 82, fee is $35.

So I fill out my DSP 11, growing aware meanwhile of certain stock dialogues happening at the head of the line:

“Do you have a departure date in mind, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know yet, how long does it take?”

“Two to three weeks—”

“Are you sure you don’t have a certified copy? How about your parents? This was Xeroxed from a certified original, I can see the seal—”

“Do I sign this?”

“No, you sign in front of an agent. Have a seat.”

“How long is the wait?”

“I’d say about forty minutes—”

“Where is the original of this, from Florida?”

“That’s it. That’s all they send you.”

“When were you leaving?”

“Friday!”

“The agent on the other side will probably request you get it certified—”

“Okay, your passport should come to you in the mail in about four weeks.”

“I’ll send you over to the agents to see if they’ll accept this for identity. Take a seat, please. You are number ninety-four.”

I am not a number. I am a free man.

Above the agents’ desk, on the far side of the room, an electric sign shows the number being served: 28. While I’m looking, it lets out a buzz, and goes to 29. Buzz, 30.

Harlan doesn’t have to stand through this whole line with me. I don’t plan to need his services; I can fill in blanks as well as anybody. He is doing it anyway.

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