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Another rough-draft excerpt: Walt meets the Department of Taxes and Finance, Bureau of Motor Vehicles:
It’s only mid-morning but it’s hot in the office, hot in the whole building. The lobby on the ground floor is bearable, the elevators are ovens, the hallway when you get off is cool by comparison, but only for the first minute after you get out. Bernice has brought an old electric fan from home and set it by an open window with a wet cloth draped over the cage that surrounds the blades. It gives the faintest breath of cool to the place, but it’s better than nothing.
At the sound of a quiet, attention-requesting cough, she turns away from the fan and finds herself looking at a man with his hat doffed, his jacket draped over one arm and a slightly-anxious smile on his face. Pointing to the sign on the door that reads ƨǝlɔiʜǝV ɿoɈoM ʇo υɒǝɿυ𐐒 :ǝɔnɒniɈ bnɒ noiɈɒxɒT ʇo ɈnǝmɈɿɒqǝᗡ ƆYИ, he begins:
“My name’s Healy, Walter T. Healy— I obtained my driver’s license at this office about seven years back?” Bernice sees that in addition to his hat and jacket, he’s holding the license. “It’s— well, it’s long since expired, and I thought I’d better renew it, but I’ve also noticed some oddities so I thought I’d better come back here instead of the office in Suffolk County.”
Bernice takes the card from his hand and examines it:
“That’s our stamp,” she admits without lifting her eyes from the paper. “But the rest of it…” She hears a heavy sigh from Mr. Healy.
“I really don’t know what happened,” he tells her. “I didn’t notice the missing information at the time, and apparently neither did the employee who processed the thing. My wife thinks everybody must have been in a rush that day. Trouble is, this is the only identity document I have. I’ve written to the Department of Health to have my birth certificate re-issued, but --” Bernice deals with this kind of thing a lot, and she deals with it efficiently, wearily, but not unsympathetically:
“Is there any immediate need for the documentation?”
“Not really, but I’d rest better knowing I’ve got it. May I take a seat?” She nods and Healy pulls a chair over and drops himself into it. “You see I’ve begun delving into my family history, and I’m not entirely sure I’m in it, if you see what I mean.” Bernice doesn’t, but she’s used to people having trouble with their records:
“You were born—”
“Presumably.” She laughs at that. “In Brooklyn,” Healy adds.
“Any chance your parents changed their family name at some point; or the spelling of it?”
“You could try it with two ls, I guess,” he replies. “Or two ees instead of an ea?” Bernice takes off her reading glasses, folds them and taps them lightly against Healy’s license as it lies on the counter:
“And asking as delicately as I may--” she begins: “is it possible they married shortly after you were born, and that you were registered under your mother’s (she coughs) maiden name?”
Healy seems more amused by her embarrassment than offended by the question, but he tilts his head as he considers this:
“They were as human as anybody, I s’pose. Guess we’d better try that tack as well. Ma’s people were named O’Brien, I think? Or O’Brian, with an a.”
“What about baptismal records?” Bernice suggests. “Your parents’ church might help point us in the right direction.”
Walt opens and shuts his mouth, and blinks. He knows Da went to Mass every week, but... His life, as he looks back on it, is beginning to assume a very strange shape. He realizes the clerk is still waiting for his reply, so he nods sharply and says:
“I can look into that.”
“And you could try looking into vaccination records as well. Don’t worry,” she smiles, “You can’t have been born in this century without leaving some trace of your existence. Wait, what is your date of birth? I see I’ve forgotten to jot it down.”
“I’ve always celebrated it second of April.” Walt hesitates. How can he even be certain of that?
“And the year?” The clerk waits for an answer. “How old are you, or how old do you think you are?” Walt glances at the tiled floor and bites his lip:
“As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth.” He grins, showing the latter. They’re surprisingly nice teeth. He’s got a charming smile. Now Bernice is the one to tilt her head, as she appraises his appearance:
“You’ve one of those faces where it’s hard to tell,” she finally admits, “But I’d put you past thirty, at least.”
“Past forty,” Walt assures her. She looks him up and down again:
“What’s the first story in the news that you can remember?” This time Walt raises his eyes to the ceiling, as though a newspaper headline might be printed there.
“Revolution in Russia.”
“1917.” She takes pencil to notepad. “Were you a little boy or a big boy at the time?”
“Got my first pair of long pants… my birthday the year following? In my neighborhood that would have put me around… eleven?”
“Eleven in 1917 or eleven when you were put in long pants?”
“Eleven in 1917. Some boys started earlier, if they left school, but Da always wanted me to get an education.”
“Looks like he got his wish. So you were most likely born 1906. Making you forty-four now.”
“Where does the time go?” Walt shakes the clerk’s hand across the counter. “You’ve been a big help. And you’ve given me an idea to visit the old neighborhood, see if anyone still lives there who might remember my folks.” He checks his watch. “I’m sorry—guess I’m keeping you from your lunch break.”
“Not just yet. And I’ve had people come in here and be far more difficult than yourself. Good luck with your search for your birth certificate, and in the meantime I’ll check our files for your driver’s license application,” she adds, as Walt places his hat on his head, gives her one more smile and heads back to the elevators. Nice fellow, she thinks.
It’s only mid-morning but it’s hot in the office, hot in the whole building. The lobby on the ground floor is bearable, the elevators are ovens, the hallway when you get off is cool by comparison, but only for the first minute after you get out. Bernice has brought an old electric fan from home and set it by an open window with a wet cloth draped over the cage that surrounds the blades. It gives the faintest breath of cool to the place, but it’s better than nothing.
At the sound of a quiet, attention-requesting cough, she turns away from the fan and finds herself looking at a man with his hat doffed, his jacket draped over one arm and a slightly-anxious smile on his face. Pointing to the sign on the door that reads ƨǝlɔiʜǝV ɿoɈoM ʇo υɒǝɿυ𐐒 :ǝɔnɒniɈ bnɒ noiɈɒxɒT ʇo ɈnǝmɈɿɒqǝᗡ ƆYИ, he begins:
“My name’s Healy, Walter T. Healy— I obtained my driver’s license at this office about seven years back?” Bernice sees that in addition to his hat and jacket, he’s holding the license. “It’s— well, it’s long since expired, and I thought I’d better renew it, but I’ve also noticed some oddities so I thought I’d better come back here instead of the office in Suffolk County.”
Bernice takes the card from his hand and examines it:
“That’s our stamp,” she admits without lifting her eyes from the paper. “But the rest of it…” She hears a heavy sigh from Mr. Healy.
“I really don’t know what happened,” he tells her. “I didn’t notice the missing information at the time, and apparently neither did the employee who processed the thing. My wife thinks everybody must have been in a rush that day. Trouble is, this is the only identity document I have. I’ve written to the Department of Health to have my birth certificate re-issued, but --” Bernice deals with this kind of thing a lot, and she deals with it efficiently, wearily, but not unsympathetically:
“Is there any immediate need for the documentation?”
“Not really, but I’d rest better knowing I’ve got it. May I take a seat?” She nods and Healy pulls a chair over and drops himself into it. “You see I’ve begun delving into my family history, and I’m not entirely sure I’m in it, if you see what I mean.” Bernice doesn’t, but she’s used to people having trouble with their records:
“You were born—”
“Presumably.” She laughs at that. “In Brooklyn,” Healy adds.
“Any chance your parents changed their family name at some point; or the spelling of it?”
“You could try it with two ls, I guess,” he replies. “Or two ees instead of an ea?” Bernice takes off her reading glasses, folds them and taps them lightly against Healy’s license as it lies on the counter:
“And asking as delicately as I may--” she begins: “is it possible they married shortly after you were born, and that you were registered under your mother’s (she coughs) maiden name?”
Healy seems more amused by her embarrassment than offended by the question, but he tilts his head as he considers this:
“They were as human as anybody, I s’pose. Guess we’d better try that tack as well. Ma’s people were named O’Brien, I think? Or O’Brian, with an a.”
“What about baptismal records?” Bernice suggests. “Your parents’ church might help point us in the right direction.”
Walt opens and shuts his mouth, and blinks. He knows Da went to Mass every week, but... His life, as he looks back on it, is beginning to assume a very strange shape. He realizes the clerk is still waiting for his reply, so he nods sharply and says:
“I can look into that.”
“And you could try looking into vaccination records as well. Don’t worry,” she smiles, “You can’t have been born in this century without leaving some trace of your existence. Wait, what is your date of birth? I see I’ve forgotten to jot it down.”
“I’ve always celebrated it second of April.” Walt hesitates. How can he even be certain of that?
“And the year?” The clerk waits for an answer. “How old are you, or how old do you think you are?” Walt glances at the tiled floor and bites his lip:
“As old as my tongue and a little older than my teeth.” He grins, showing the latter. They’re surprisingly nice teeth. He’s got a charming smile. Now Bernice is the one to tilt her head, as she appraises his appearance:
“You’ve one of those faces where it’s hard to tell,” she finally admits, “But I’d put you past thirty, at least.”
“Past forty,” Walt assures her. She looks him up and down again:
“What’s the first story in the news that you can remember?” This time Walt raises his eyes to the ceiling, as though a newspaper headline might be printed there.
“Revolution in Russia.”
“1917.” She takes pencil to notepad. “Were you a little boy or a big boy at the time?”
“Got my first pair of long pants… my birthday the year following? In my neighborhood that would have put me around… eleven?”
“Eleven in 1917 or eleven when you were put in long pants?”
“Eleven in 1917. Some boys started earlier, if they left school, but Da always wanted me to get an education.”
“Looks like he got his wish. So you were most likely born 1906. Making you forty-four now.”
“Where does the time go?” Walt shakes the clerk’s hand across the counter. “You’ve been a big help. And you’ve given me an idea to visit the old neighborhood, see if anyone still lives there who might remember my folks.” He checks his watch. “I’m sorry—guess I’m keeping you from your lunch break.”
“Not just yet. And I’ve had people come in here and be far more difficult than yourself. Good luck with your search for your birth certificate, and in the meantime I’ll check our files for your driver’s license application,” she adds, as Walt places his hat on his head, gives her one more smile and heads back to the elevators. Nice fellow, she thinks.
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 02:51 pm (UTC)From:I'm curious who could be more work than Walter, though!
no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 04:02 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2019-09-14 06:19 pm (UTC)From: