Shu Jo Mu Hen Sei Gan Do
Bon No Mu Jin Sei Gan Dan
Ho Mon Mu Ryo Sei Gan Gakku
Butsu Do Mu Jo Sei Gan Jo
Infinite are all beings, I vow to save them.
Infinite are all attachments, I vow to be free of them.
Infinite are all Dharmas, I vow to master them.
Infinite is the Buddha Way, I vow to attain it.
We went to get Lilly's passport today. It was Wacky Day at school. Lilly wore mismatching socks, athletic shorts over neon pink fishnet tights, my big grey cable motheaten cashmere sweater, and a plastic replica of the Time Turner from Harry Potter. She told me this was a hit with the sixth grade boys, who all wanted to play with it. Last night, while I was working on my paper, we'd somehow found the time to dye Lilly's hair red. So she had red hair again, too.
I didn't really think about all this until we were standing in line at the post office, waiting to have her pic taken.
The big bald guy with the big ears was at the counter. He's kind of loud and bossy. "Do you have an i.d.?"
"We have a birth certificate."
"You need an i.d."
"She's 16. She doesn't have an i.d."
"She has a school i.d., doesn't she?"
"She goes to a private school. They don't have school i.d.'s" What's with all this i.d. crap, anyways, for minors? I mean, isn't this in the constitution?
I produce the notarized letter from her father, allowing her to go out of the country. "We don't need that," he tells me.
Last time I was here, he had told me I did. But I didn't argue. Don't argue with officials. Yes sir, no sir. Get through the line.
"I have an i.d." Lilly pipes up. "It's in the bottom of my locker."
"You do?" I ask, incredulous. I want to kick her. Another lesson is that whatever your mother says, never contradict her. Didn't she watch The Godfather? That sort of thing is what got James Caan shot.
"It's ok. You don't really need one," he informs us. "It's just a good idea to have one. Ok. Let's go over and take your picture."
We head over to the other side of the counter, where the camera is. On the way over, I see someone I know. Phillip Lundqvist. Phillip was the weirdest, wildest, sexiest, most interesting guy in our high school. He became a curator for the Guggenheim. He had beautiful lush curly brown hair and he drove a jeep. He was my best friend, Heather's boyfriend. We never really did anything to betray Heather, but every day after school, my mother would drop me off downtown and go back to work, and I would just wander for 3 or 4 hours until she got off work. And somehow, Phillip and I started running into each other. And then, somehow, we started meeting on the corner of 9th and Cherry every day and going for ice cream. Then we would take off in his jeep with our ice cream at 90 miles an hour out into the country and drive like maniacs on the dirt roads through the fields in the county until it was time for me to be picked up. We hardly ever talked. Lots of crazy laughing, though. And he never kissed me or anything. Or even touched me. But we never told anyone we did this.
So there he was. Lots of thick curly grey hair and wrinkles. But the same eyes. Wearing overalls and a slicker. He looked like he'd been through hell.
He told me his mother had died, and that he'd quit work to take care of her when he was dying and now he was busy wrapping up the estate, selling the farm, etc. He told me none of his seven brothers and sisters had pitched in.
Then the bald guy came over. "Are you done filling out the form?"
"No," I said. "I'm talking. I'm sorry."
"Well, I have to go on break."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He goes.
A short black woman with a prominent scar on her face that looks exactly like a dog bite, teeth marks and all. I hand her our documents.
"Where's her i.d."
"He said we didn't need one."
"You need one."
"But he said we didn't."
The bald guy comes back over. "I told her she doesn't need one. It's just for their convenience. She's a minor."
"Ok." the woman says.
He leaves.
"Ok then," I say, handing her the documents.
"You need to get an id."
"But he just said...."
"I didn't."
"But he just said that I didn't need one, I'm just going by what he said. Why didn't you say something?"
She gets really nasty. "Because I don't INTERRUPT YOU WANT ME TO INTERRUPT? THAT OK WITH YOU? NOW YOU GO GET AN I.D. I'M THE PASSPORT CLERK AND IF I SAY YOU NEED AN ID THAN YOU GO GET ONE."
I don't know what to say. I take a deep breath. Lilly sucks in her breath and we both stare at the woman, who stares back.
"Ok." I say. "Will a school i.d. be okay?"
"State. Drivers permit or state i.d."
We leave, meekly.
"Oh, my God," Lilly says. "I can't believe that just happened."
I'm shaking. "Did I do ok? Did I act mad?"
"No. " Lilly says, "you did great."
We head out to the drivers testing building, way North of town. It's in one of those buildings they put up in the 70's without windows. It's across the street from a Krispy Kreme, a Korean grocery store, and a trailer park. When we were on food stamps, we used to go to this building. Lilly goes in, starts taking the test. The older woman at the desk leans into me.
"Does she have trouble with her 's's?" She asks.
"I'm sorry?"
She repeats herself. "Does she have trouble with her s's? I always had so much trouble making the s sound."
I look at the woman more closely and realize she has a cleft. Repaired. But I can see the faint tracing of a scar. We start talking to each other like long lost relatives. She's so nice and kind. I tell her all about Lilly. It turns out she's from Miami, too, and went to high school at the school where my grandfather was a guidance counselor in the late forties. She tells me about her pretty mother, how they moved around as her mother went from man to man. It's a sad childhood, but things worked out. She's been married 51 years and has a daughter, lived all over the world
Lilly fails the test. Twice. We head off to the DOR to get a state i.d. But I feel like I've made a friend.
We go back to the post office.
I steel myself to deal with the mean dog bite woman.
She arrives at the counter cheerful as a lark.
"You got it?"
I hand it to her.
"that'll do. You go to a private school?" She asks Lilly.
"Paloma Independent." Lilly says.
"I sent mine to Catholic school."
"We thought about that for Lilly," I say. "but they stop at 8th grade here."
"Yes," Dog Bite nods, "then you have to ship them to Daviston for the high school there."
We talk about the public schools. She tells me about her daughter, how she wants to be a nurse (how did she find out I'm a nurse, I wonder?). She gets everything done, stamped, signed. Gives me a receipt.
"I'm so sorry about that earlier," she whispers, grabbing the counter.
And I got to say. "Sorry about what? No worries!"
"That worked out well, " Lilly muses, as we walk back to the car.
That's my 1/2 hour, and then some
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