Give Me a Notary, or Give Me Death

Everyone wants to be wanted, right?

Well, so do I.

And, in aid of that estimable, palpable desire: in my next life, I’m coming back as a fucking notary.

Sure, notaries aren’t wanted all the time, by everybody, but, at some point in your life, you have probably wanted, currently want, or will want, (possibly for some bizarre, heretofore unanticipated reason) a goddamned notary.

Maybe it will have to deal with your probate. Or your prostate. I don’t know. I’m just saying—one day, finding a fucking notary will be like being on a mission from God. You have been warned.

Take heed also, lads and lassies: other people want notaries, too. And it may just happen that, when you suddenly decide that you require a notary, it will be on the very selfsame day that the rest of the civilized and semi-civilized world has also decided that they, too, simply cannot do without the services and stamps and seals of a notary as well.

Yes, my loves—you are not the only person in the world who wants a notary. Though I lack the statistics to rattle off to sound intelligent, on any given day in America, at least ten thousand assholes go scurrying around like rabid rats to Mailboxes, Etc, the bank, the auto tag place in fervent, fervid search of some dowdy-looking woman with lazy-eye who is, indeed, a notary. She waits, in beauty like the night, like some kind of innocuous-looking Clark Kent ready to whip out her rubber stamp and forever change your life, forging you ahead on some sort of officious, banal mission.

Clearly, she hasn’t had a date since 1987 and yet, you seek her out as if she were grapes to your Waldorf Salad. You would kick the walkers out from underneath elderly ladies for just two minutes in her presence, this princess of paperwork, this vixen of validation, this… this… sentry of the stamp. You need her signature. You ache for her seal. You crave knowing when her commission expires.

She’s your notary, baby—but, only for a moment or two.

Or… if you’re like the two assholes in front of me at the Bank of America, for FIFTY-FOUR MOTHERFUCKING MINUTES!

I sat, waiting, for this goddamned notary, people, for fifty-four minutes. They actually closed the bank, with me in it. Locked it down. The fucking security guard peaced out.

I did not like that.

The two dudes in the little room with the notary were Middle Eastern. I don’t have a problem with that. I’m pretty much, like, kind of Middle Eastern, too, I guess. But one of the dudes was a translator for the other one. And the notary was Spanish. I can only assume that language-barrier issues could account for the lion’s share of their time spent with the notary. Either that or they were taking turns inseminating her. They could have done that at least nine times. Each. I mean, unless they were doing it while thinking about Cricket.

I’ve never been inside a locked bank before. It held no appeal for me whatsoever. It wasn’t like being inside a locked toy store or a candy store when you’re seven, or a sex shop when you’re eighteen, not like that ever happened to me. I’ve never been inside a sex shop. I’ve also never been inside the Over 18 section of a Blockbuster or West Coast Video, which is kind of a shame, since those stores kind of don’t exist anymore. I guess I missed my chance to, you know, be looked at as some kind of sexual deviant by parents renting rated-R movies for their eight-year-olds.

When I finally got my turn to sit before the notary, she looked at my paperwork.

Police Officer Candidate Application

Personal Injury Waiver for Physical Fitness Test

Photocopy of Driver’s License

Photocopy of High School Diploma

2 inch x 2 inch (Passport-sized) photograph of self

Certified Cashier’s Check for $50.00

“Jew are applying for po-leeece?” she asked me.

Jes, jew is.

“Yes, I am.”

“Dat ees so niyeece,” she said.

“Mm-hm,” I grimaced. I wanted to leave the locked bank.

She notarized my shit in under two minutes. I felt like the asshole who goes to Starbucks to get a coffee, standing in back of the nimnum ordering a drink containing more ingredients than are contained in a bag of Salsa-flavored Doritos.

And I had thought that getting the certified cashier’s check (which I had to do at another bank) was a pain in the ass. The Wal-Mart-style greeter at the bank accosted me the nanosecond I walked in and started badgering me with questions about my banking preferences and I told him I just wanted a certified cashier’s check.

“Oh, well step this way and Mommy will help you.”

I stared at him, very unsure of what I’d heard. Was this asshole calling me a baby? He directed me to the teller’s window. I looked at her name-tag.

“Mamme.”

Kids, when you get to be a grown-up, Mommy can’t help you—and neither can Mamme. Sometimes, you just want—- no, need—- a fucking notary.