Number 54
I'm going to be blunt: I could care less about Black Friday, and "I am thankful for..." posts are about as entertaining as waiting in line at the DMV. Does this make me a bad person? I mean, I am grateful for what I have and all...
With all the fear, hype, and false quotes floating around these days about special IDs and compulsory badges, here is a little "what if" writing experiment. I refuse to defend a certain business man gone politician, but he never suggested IDs and badges.
You are number 54. You watch as the ticker at the DMV flashes 52. Good. Just two more to go, and you can hurry up and get on with your life. You shift the paperwork in your hands as it makes an annoying crinkle sound.
53
You double check that you have everything. In the name of security, the DMV wants everything short of a blood sample. Whatever. You just want to get on with your life and go to that new cafe near your house. You hear they have the best caffè americanos.
54
Thank the gods. It is your turn. You hurry up to the window as the DMV clerk yawns. He motions for your paperwork as you are already putting it onto the counter. He flips through it and marks several copies with a red stamp.
"Good," he mumbles when he picks up the last document. "The amount of people I had to send away today for not providing this." He looks it over, giving it more attention than he did to your social security card.
He types something into his computer. You wait patiently. You are being served, so there is no sense in being annoyed. I just want my coffee, you think.
"Would you like to volunteer for the Religion Acceptance Project? It involves wearing a pendant or necklace with your religious symbol on it," he says and leans forward. The bored clerk stares into his monitor as he reads a disclaimer.
"In the interest of freedom and fairness, we are introducing the RAP, a social experiment which allows participants to immediately recognize another participant's beliefs. The goal is to promote tolerance, acceptance, and to correctly address participants. Participants will receive a voucher for $100 and a pendant in the mail. Participants are required to wear the pendant for a period of six months and will document their observations. At the end of the test period, participants will submit their observations and receive $200."
Three hundred dollars to wear a silly badge? Yes, please.
"Yes," you reply. His fingers click across his keyboard as he submits your information.
"Are you registered to vote?"
"Yes," you reply.
"Stand to the left. Face the camera. No smiling." You obey.
Flash.
You blink and face him again.
"Proceed to Zone C and wait for your number to appear on the teleprompt. Your license will be ready in ten minutes."
You frown as you walk to Zone C. Another ten minutes. You try not to be impatient, but damn it, you want to try out that cafe! It has that rustic, cabin-in-the-woods feel you love so much, but would never admit, lest you be confused for a hipster.
You fidget in your seat. Adding your religion to your license was something you could care less about. It was just another item on a list, and the government already knew everything about you anyway. Besides, they were giving everyone a tax break for it. You could use the extra cash.
Your number flashes on the teleprompt. It is time to grab your license and to finally get your beloved and long awaited americano.
When the clerk hands it to you, you frown. A dark pit forms in your stomach as your heart nearly stops. There it is. Your religion. It is listed right below your date of birth. Shaking, you stuff it in your wallet and hurry out.
This is how it begins.
With all the fear, hype, and false quotes floating around these days about special IDs and compulsory badges, here is a little "what if" writing experiment. I refuse to defend a certain business man gone politician, but he never suggested IDs and badges.
Photo of the DMV is credited to coolcaesar at wikipedia commons
You are number 54. You watch as the ticker at the DMV flashes 52. Good. Just two more to go, and you can hurry up and get on with your life. You shift the paperwork in your hands as it makes an annoying crinkle sound.
53
You double check that you have everything. In the name of security, the DMV wants everything short of a blood sample. Whatever. You just want to get on with your life and go to that new cafe near your house. You hear they have the best caffè americanos.
54
Thank the gods. It is your turn. You hurry up to the window as the DMV clerk yawns. He motions for your paperwork as you are already putting it onto the counter. He flips through it and marks several copies with a red stamp.
"Good," he mumbles when he picks up the last document. "The amount of people I had to send away today for not providing this." He looks it over, giving it more attention than he did to your social security card.
He types something into his computer. You wait patiently. You are being served, so there is no sense in being annoyed. I just want my coffee, you think.
"Would you like to volunteer for the Religion Acceptance Project? It involves wearing a pendant or necklace with your religious symbol on it," he says and leans forward. The bored clerk stares into his monitor as he reads a disclaimer.
"In the interest of freedom and fairness, we are introducing the RAP, a social experiment which allows participants to immediately recognize another participant's beliefs. The goal is to promote tolerance, acceptance, and to correctly address participants. Participants will receive a voucher for $100 and a pendant in the mail. Participants are required to wear the pendant for a period of six months and will document their observations. At the end of the test period, participants will submit their observations and receive $200."
Three hundred dollars to wear a silly badge? Yes, please.
"Yes," you reply. His fingers click across his keyboard as he submits your information.
"Are you registered to vote?"
"Yes," you reply.
"Stand to the left. Face the camera. No smiling." You obey.
Flash.
You blink and face him again.
"Proceed to Zone C and wait for your number to appear on the teleprompt. Your license will be ready in ten minutes."
You frown as you walk to Zone C. Another ten minutes. You try not to be impatient, but damn it, you want to try out that cafe! It has that rustic, cabin-in-the-woods feel you love so much, but would never admit, lest you be confused for a hipster.
You fidget in your seat. Adding your religion to your license was something you could care less about. It was just another item on a list, and the government already knew everything about you anyway. Besides, they were giving everyone a tax break for it. You could use the extra cash.
Your number flashes on the teleprompt. It is time to grab your license and to finally get your beloved and long awaited americano.
When the clerk hands it to you, you frown. A dark pit forms in your stomach as your heart nearly stops. There it is. Your religion. It is listed right below your date of birth. Shaking, you stuff it in your wallet and hurry out.
This is how it begins.
