Fingerprints

Yesterday we had our big fingerprinting appointment with the local office of the Department of Homeland Security. Even simply having to appear at this office seemed like an eerie prospect, and the experience did turn out to be somewhat surreal.

First off, the letter which arrived a month ago detailing our appointment date and time was very specific about a couple of things. First off it stated, in bold print, that we were NOT TO ARRIVE ANY EARLIER THAN 15 MINUTE BEFORE YOUR ASSIGNED APPOINTMENT. Okay, fair enough. I've relished the opportunity to sit in a plastic, government appointed folding chair for the past month, but I can give that up.

Second, we were NOT TO BRING ANYONE OTHER THAN OURSELVES with us to the appointment. Again, the potential for an afternoon out with the boys at the offices of a local government agency seemed intriguing, but I can give that up as well. The reason given behind this request was that there would be limited seating in the waiting area. I imagined something like a small doctor's office with 5 or 6 chairs and a TV. When we arrived at the office, there were something like 40 or 50 chairs and maybe 5 or 6 people waiting. I'll assume it's busier at other times...

As we arrived at the doors to the suite where we were to be fingerprinted, we were greeted by two friendly security agents. Prior to performing the usual metal detector sweep with a wand, they asked me to empty my pockets of anything metal. Fair enough I tossed my wallett and car keys to Erin, at which point the guard says "Whoa...they're not going to let THAT in there." I thought back trying to recall if I was carrying anything like a machete or perhaps even a lighter. Nada. What I did have was a Swiss army knife on my keychain.

Now I use this knife every day at work for SOMETHING, usually something on the order of performing step 2 on my Healthy Choice microwaveable lunch -- "cut slit in plastic." I occasionally turn a screw with it, and even more rarely I dig a piece of said lunch out of my teeth with the tooth pick. So I say to the guy, "Ok, can I leave it out here with you until we're done?" No can do. So I head down to the lobby of the building. I asked the same question of the young lady manning the help desk in the center of the ground floor. Same answer. So I trudged out to my car in the snow to drop off my $9, dull, pocket knife. I would have just pitched it, but it would be the 3rd one I've pitched in the last 4 years -- the others at the hands of the airport screeners. To their credit, the guards in this case stated very bluntly that they understood my frustration and even agreed with it. I think one of them even commented after I was gone that you could do more damage with a pencil than that pocket knife, but alas. At some point in the not too distant future, I really can envision trapsing naked through a metal detector to get fingerprinted, board an airplane, etc. You thought crowded airports were uncomfortable now, wait 'til you're trying to shimmy naked through that metal detector with the Cal State women's nordic ski team watching you jiggle from the back of the line.

Once we were inside the office, it took only a few minutes of interfacing with some entirely humorless people before we were whisked into the room with the fingerprinting machines. This was a pretty cool process, from a technological standpoint, but again, I managed to run into issues. You see, anyone that knew me growing up knows that I bit my fingernails as though there was gold under them until a couple of years ago. I've worked very hard to stop, but my cuticles are still sort of a mess, and they dry out badly during the winter. As the lady was rolling one of my fingers over this machine to take my prints, she had to try it several times to get a good image. Each time she squeezed a little harder and pressed down a little harder on my finger. Eventually a tiny bit of blood seeped from my cracked finger. Not good. Suddenly Band Aids are flying, rubber gloves are being changed, and next thing I know, they're pouring alcohol over my dry, chapped finger. After about 3 more tries at taking my print on this finger, they were successful. But I could tell that they were not pleased with me. They handed me a comment card and told me to fill it out. I quickly checked all of the "EXCELLENT" boxes and handed it back to the lady, comment side up so she could see how excellent her service was (despite drawing blood and making me say "Mommy" when she hit me with the alcohol.)

Fingerprints done. Now we wait. Hopefully we'll get the A-OK on these in the next four weeks, at which time we'll get it stamped by the secretary of state, stamped by the Chinese consulate in Chicago, and finally sent off to Denver for transmission to China.

Now where's my knife...I have a nose hair to trim with those teeny tiny scissors...

Bret