“Bing,” goes the sign. Red diodes die off while others sputter on as the signs, each as big as a cereal box and spread throughout the waiting room, rewrite themselves in unison. In a neat visual effect the top two series of letters and numbers shift down. There is a new letter/number designation on the top now, and the bottom one is gone completely. ‘C 256’ the top reads, then ‘B 159’ and ‘J 872’ below that. I have already seen the front desk and been sorted. It is time to wait patiently. I fight the compulsion to smile at the cameras and look innocent. These offices bring out my conciliatory nature; I want the cameras to know I’m on their side. The sign goes off again and it’s my turn, maybe for good behaviour.
The woman at the counter listens to my story which I’m sure is convoluted by her standards. The people around me want to get a driver’s license or they’ve lost their license and they’re here to get it back. I have two licenses, I am the envy of every other ‘B something’, I have licenses in spades. I show these to the woman at the counter. “I would like to consolidate my licenses,” I say. I hope the man beside me heard, that he’s jealous of the boy who has so many licenses he can afford to get rid of some of them.
I explain my situation to the woman at the counter. Suffice to say it’s a boring explanation, broken up only by a mediocre attempt at humour on my part followed by a smile that feels charming. I need her cooperation and she is not unattractive in her mid thirties. I am a young male; there are chemicals in me that make a certain amount of this behaviour beyond my control.
The woman at the counter leaves to seek the council of her manager. She is gone awhile, and then they return together. The manager’s fleshy shoulders fit perfectly on top of her fat sides. She is an egg. Her hair is pulled back in a long pony tail, nearly full white with streaks of gray. My chemicals recede.
“The problem,” she says, cutting right to it, “is that these are not the same people.” She fingers my licences. “This person was born in 1983.” She holds up the Quebec license. “This person was born in 1986.” She holds up the British Columbia license.
“But they were both born on March 26th. Doesn’t it seem likely that ’83 was just a mistake?”
The manager shakes her head. “The computer won’t accept that these are the same people.”
“I was in Quebec for two years, that’s why I have a Quebec license. The one from B.C. I’ve just got since returning. I can show you my school I.D. a transcript, grad photos.”
The manager starts to organize a fold of papers she’d brought over. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“But look,” I say, appealing to her eyes and her sanity, “we are all the same people.” I point at the face on each license and make a gesture with my chin. “I’ve got all my documents, all my numbers, social insurance, care card-“
“I’m sorry,” she says interrupting. “The computer will not allow it. They are not the same people.”
I look over her shoulder at a camera and sigh. I try to look resigned but not angry. I gather up my papers, pocket my B.C. license. The manager takes the Quebec license. You’re not allowed to go around carrying other people’s licenses. I suppose you might get in trouble and claim it to be your own. The woman at the counter smiles weakly to me as I turn towards the door. Outside, I sit on my car for a moment. I feel badly for the boy who was born simultaneously on the twenty-sixth of March 1983 and the day that someone made an error in Montreal processing an out of province license. I hope he is doing well. I imagine he wishes he had his I.D.
