Fingerprints

“Don’t run,” he yelled.

I straightened and turned my face, heated with shame, towards the unknown man. Throwing an apologetic smile I promised to walk on the icy path. Then I laughed knowing I looked childish in my mismatched winter gear assembled in haste. But I had 11 minutes before the hours for fingerprinting ended.

Rushing through the front doors I met challenge number two. The security guard who looked strangely familiar gestured to me to sign in. Could these ridiculously old men not tell that I failed to plan? I didn’t have moments to spare for the nonsense like walking and registration complete with the State’s version of a bathroom pass—a large round visitor’s sticker.

As I’m sure many security cameras can verify I ran down the hall, nearly pulled the door off the hinges and tapped my foot impatiently waiting for the elevator. Arriving on the fourth floor I approached the first woman I saw sitting at a desk.

“I need to be fingerprinted,” I exclaimed. Honestly I said it loudly and stood confused when I had to repeat my request to the woman in the next cubicle. She had been facing me when I first spoke so I wrongly assumed she had heard. Not my only miscalculation.

An hour later, which included a quick trip to the ATM across the street, I stared at my fingers. The computer refused to believe that my individually scanned fingerprint patterns matched the four digit scans done first. My skin dried out from the damp cloth the lady kept wiping them with, the cloth that was meant to hydrate.

I felt criminal, like I’d gotten away with the perfect crime only to have karma kick me. We scanned and re-scanned and erased to start again. I regretted not drinking that glass of water. This was no routine ink job. When we finally tricked the digi-cop I breathed deeply, mentally checking this errand off my list.

“Here are your papers,” the lady said cheerfully handing me the forms I’d just filled out. “Keep them together and bring them back after you get your criminal history from Ireland.”

Did I complain about the hour-plus fingerprinting? I might have more to say when the Garda get back to me next year.