So we had to drive all the way to downtown Charlotte to get a copy of our marriage certificate. (We can’t find our original since it’s boxed up somewhere–who knows where.) We checked with the government website first to find out where we had to go. It turned out we had to drive to a building and office complex that’s named after a child molester. No, I’m not joking. It’s named after a known child molester who was a long-time elected official in this county. We had to go to the third floor, office #20 we were informed.
Carole and I got there. At least the place had ample free parking. Going in, we went to the listed floor and to office #20 and approached the desk. The clerk there told us that this was no longer the office for that kind of thing even though the website says that it is. She gave us a newly printed card with the address of the building and office where that business is now conducted.
Previous to this I had not been that troubled, but now I was beginning to feel the urge to kick in a door or something like that, but I held it in.
We drove to the building complex indicated on the card, about a mile away from the first place that is named after the child molester. Carole and I had both been to this building before and it had its own parking. When we got to the driveway for the parking we found that it had been blocked off and the building no longer offered parking.
Another two circuits around the block revealed to us that there was a newer parking deck that charged $1.50 for the first half hour. And another sign informed us that if we lost the ticket we’d be issued upon entering that we would have to pay $15.00 to get out of the parking deck. We parked, put the ticket safely in the truck, then walked across the street to the entrance, climbing a bunch of stairs to get to the door.
At the door we realized that there was a metal scanner. And cops. Lots of cops. Did I mention that there are cops crawling all over this part of Charlotte? They’re everywhere–like a lice infestation. Carole asked me if I had my pocketknife on me. I have pretty much carried a pocketknife with me since I was eight years old. Without fail. It goes into my pocket without thinking almost every morning.
“Shit,” says I. Of course I had a pocketknife in my freaking pocket. So I turned around, descended all of those steps, crossed the street, walked to the spot where I had parked my truck, and put my fucking pocketknife with the fucking parking receipt.
A tiny bit more anger, but, well, nothing like boiling over. That anger had ample time to dissipate while I walked back out of the parking deck, across the street, and up the giant stack of granite stairs. (Thank Jove for Zoloft.)
We went in the building. I handed my wallet, my keys, and my cell phone to a cop holding a plastic basket. Then I walked through the scanner. It still went off. I then I had to stand in the middle of the goddamned hallway with my arms held out like Jesus fucking Christ on the cross at Golgotha while the cop scanned me again with a handheld device. (He didn’t stab me in the ribs with it, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had.) I un-Jesusly wanted to kick him in the balls, but I also didn’t want to get arrested and, like I said, thank Jove for Zoloft. The new scan revealed that I had nothing on me that was metal with the exception of my belt buckle.
We then went to the nearest clerk at a big desk in the massive atrium and she told us that this was not the building we needed and that it was two buildings away. (You’re laughing now, right? Right?) So we had to leave that place. The clerk told us to leave via a revolving door but when we got to it the door was barred and locked. “Not this revolving door, silly,” a female cop told us. “The other revolving door.” Which we found about fifty feet away in the atrium.
Yeah. I hate this shit. I hate everyone involved in it. The insurance company. The cops. The clerks. The child-molesting elected officials who make us jump through the fucking hoops. At this point, everyone. I’d have probably hated you if I’d seen your mug right about then.
Outside again we walked two buildings down, went in, walked to the office we’d been told was really, actually, truly, certainly, absolutely the right, correct, definite one that would give us a copy of our marriage certificate. We filled out a form. We gave it back to the nice lady clerk who had, I have to say, a cheerful smiling face and positive demeanor. Ten dollars later we had the certificate. Frankly, it looks exactly like the original and not a copy. We had applied for that certificate on May 21, 1984 and were married less than three weeks later. Carole is still married to my cranky ass. Amazing. Miraculous.
From there we left the building (no scanner), avoided the first building like it was an NRA member waving his AR-15 around, crossed the street, got into the truck, paid our $1.50 parking fee (somehow we’d done all of that in just under thirty minutes) and got the ripping Hell out of Charlotte, NC.
And now I am sitting at home writing this and dreaming of the day when I won’t have to do this kind of ridiculous shit anymore. The insurance company has their pound of my frustration and anger, so I hope they’re satisified.
People ask me why I am not happy with this country. Mainly I just stare at them when they say such a stupid, goddamned thing. So far I have not punched any of them in their smug, ignorant faces.
That may change.
|I’m surprised they didn’t name it the William S. Burroughs Building.|