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The Certificate

Manuel Moya

    “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”
    “Was I going over the speed limit?”
    “No.”
    “Uh... is something wrong with my car?”
    “No.”
    “Well I don’t know. What’s the matter?”
    “Calm down sir. You did nothing wrong. We’re just patrolling the highway to see if people have their certificates today.” A silence ensued and then he let out the question...“You do have your certificate, don’t you?”
    “Certificate?”
    The officer instantly unbuckled his leather gun holster. “Can I please see it?”
    “Oh! Ohh! My certificate.” Stanley’s face flushed with sweat while his hands frantically felt around the car dashboard. He reached for the glove compartment but it wouldn’t give. “God dammit!” Yanked harder and the contents spilled out of the jaw and all over the floor and passenger seat. “Uh... oh god, oh god where is it?” He couldn’t spot it in the mess. And on the periphery he could see the cop positioning his hand on the pistol grip.
    “Ohh shit! How could I have forgotten!” He reached for the back of his pants and took out his wallet stuffed with a thick tuft of receipts and business cards. Tossing them out like nothing he eventually found a wrinkly strip of paper with some simplistic design bordering around a message. “Yup! Here. Here it is! This is it!” he presented the paper to the cop with a shaky hand. The officer took it with his left hand and gave it a hard stare. After some wordless, motionless minutes, the cop slowly returned the gun in its holster. He pulled out a pad of paper and began writing something on the roof of the car.
    “Is something the matter Officer?”
    “Not to worry sir. I’m just scheduling you for a renewal appointment.”
    “Renewal? I’m sorry, did you say renewal? I just got it a little while ago.”
    “Yeah. It says here you got it in May.”
    “Has it been three months already?”
    “August is right around the corner. Don’t you worry. I got you down for an appointment this week so you can get it over with and move on with your life.”
    “This week!”
    “You have a problem with that?” Stan bit his tongue. “Just show this appointment ticket to your nearest DOV and they’ll set you up.”

    On the day of, before the sun had fully awoken, Stan had pulled into a massive parking lot where he found a long line of people already snaked around a windowless, warehouse-like building with the letters D-O-V plainly posted atop the corner of a wall.
    “I’m here for a renewal,” he showed his appointment ticket at the information desk.
    “35E.”
    As he searched for the booth, he saw mothers trying to calm their wailing babies, and restless children running around the endless aisles filled with people stewing in boredom. A man was yelling furiously at a bureaucrat in one station. There was an ethnic looking couple wildly arguing and gesticulating with each other over some documentation at hand. A homeless woman lay her head on a giant bag of clothing or possibly recyclables she had propped on the seat next to her, showing off her severely calloused feet. A rat scurried away into a crack in a wall. Stan passed a woman crying on her husband’s shoulder and finally encountered a door labeled 35E.
    Behind the door were hundreds of people in small cubicles staring at computer screens. After identifying himself, he was assigned to one such station. The screen presented the first question: “Who ran in the election of 1832?” and after he answered, the next: “What were the causes of the War of 1812?” and the next, “List each President in chronological order and name at least three accomplishments during their Administrations.” “How many died in the Civil War?” “Briefly explain the essence of the Monroe Doctrine.” “What was the XYZ Affair?” “Which of the following authors were not American?” “What year was Thomas Jefferson born?” “Who was George C. Marshall?” The questions went on and on for a few hours until the computer requested he enter a time and date for his oral examination.
    At the next appointment, after another long wait, he opened a new door and inside found a large room with a polygraph on a desk and chair facing a committee of thirteen suits. “Take a seat Mr. Pilgrim.”
    As he sat, a man in a lab coat strapped him to the machine with all the necessary electrodes and bands wrapped around his head, arm and fingers. Once hooked up, a nod was given to the committee.
    “Mr. Pilgrim, how do you feel about the American Revolution?”
    “Uh... It was a good thing. It greatly benefitted mankind. It brought about liberty and justice for many.
    “Many you say, but not all?”
    “No, all. For all.”
    “And the Civil War? What do you think?”
    “The right side won.”
    The committee members, it seemed, asked the most random questions without any particular order or reasoning, “Will you vote in the next election?” Another asked, “Do you look at pornography?” “Do you prefer cereal or eggs for breakfast?” “Uh, please tell the committee why you chose to wear that outfit today?” “How many partners have you slept with in the past week? Month? Year? Five years? Ten years? Your entire life?” “Do you prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream?” “Mr. Pilgrim, are you in favor of free-markets or socialism?” “Does God play a role in your life?” “When are you going to get married?” “Do you hate your father?” “Which is better, Alaska or Wyoming?” “Do you drink alcohol? How much?” “Why so little?” “No, no,” asked another, “Why so much?” After a few hours of this, a commissioner cut Stan off as he was giving an answer, “Thank you Mister Pilgrim. That will be all.”

    He was let out of the room, but through a different door from which he came in. Upon going through this door, Stan was told to go down a white hall where he was shown a security guard up ahead standing at another door. “Wait in here,” he was instructed as he entered this new room where he saw men and women sitting around waiting. The room reeked of boredom and impatience. Some were laying their heads on the shoulders next to them. Others had their iPods and phones out. Then the same official walked in and announced to everyone, “Please undress and we will be with you shortly.” There was some commotion over this, but most of them seemed to know the drill. As the guard left, “Wha?” asked one woman dumbfounded, “What did he say? Are we to...?” “Come on dear,” said an elderly lady next to her, “Let’s just get this over with.”
    It was a thoroughly unerotic and unpleasant experience to see everyone expose and be exposed. A grandfather who came in wearing a respectable looking vintage suit and hat, dressed like they did in the fifties, was forced to bare his leathery flesh amidst the jungle of eyes. Women, young and old, huddled amongst each other, as if they were engaged in some form of primal protection against the unknown. A robust black man stood up from his seat naked, proudly showing off his length, “Come here baby,” he said to an unassuming girl, “you know you wanna look.” The guard came in just then, “Alright, I want all of you to line up on the yellow line. You will walk down the line until you are directed to a particular room.”
    They all walked barefoot, holding their clothes over their genitals. The women crossed their chests. “Where are we going?” one of them asked, but there was no response. “Uh excuse me,” an extremely well fed man tried to get the guard’s attention, “Uh...Excuse me, I’m diabetic. My sugar is low.”
    “Keep it moving.”
    “But my sugar is low, and...” The guard sternly looked at him. “Please, I... I have to eat something or else I can faint.”
    “Sir, I’m not going to ask you again.”
    As the hall divided into three, the guard started pointing people down different paths. He looked at Stan and quickly pointed to a left lane. Stan looked behind at the others, wondering what decision-making process was behind this, if any at all, and how it could be done so quickly.
    “Keep going,” the guard waved at him. Stan continued down the yellow line and it led him to another room where a man in a white lab coat and bifocals waited with a toothy grin. “Hello, I am Doctor Stanley.”
    “Oh? My name is Stan too.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “You do?”
    “It really is a small world,” he smiled. “And you know what that means”
    “What?”
    “That makes us brothers.”
    “Brothers?”
    “Now I’m just going to examine you a bit okay?
    “Uh...okay,” Stan shrugged.
    “Okay, now open your left eye widely,” he asked while shining a light into it, “Now your right one.”
    He did the same with the mouth and ears.
    “Mmmhmm...good...good. Now let’s put you on a scale.”
    The doc walked Stan over to a scale, “Hmmm...looks like you’ve gained a little since we last saw you Mr. Pilgrim.”
    Stan paled upon hearing this, “Uh...I...I have?”
    “Don’t worry Stan. Only a few pounds.”
    “A few?”
    “Yes, yes. Of course, I’ll have to make a note of this in my report, but it isn’t that bad. Really. Calm down,” he smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry.” The doc continued the rest of his physical, scribbling notes on his clipboard. “Okay Mr. Pilgrim,” he smiled showing his teeth. “If you go through that door,” he pointed to another door in the room, “You will see the yellow line. Just continue following it.”
    “Uh.... But where does it go?”
    “Uh huh. Yes. Just follow the line.”
    “But where does it lead?” Another patient had stepped into the office and the doctor began tending to him.
    Stan followed the line and was led to a door without any number or lettering. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath. And then he took another before opening. He was back at the main waiting hall. “Wait here, until your name is called,” instructed another security guard. And so he waited. Slouched over in his chair, hungry, exhausted, he nodded off amidst the sound of the crying babies and the stink of the unbathed. A few more hours and then, “Stanley Pilgrim,” announced a loudspeaker. “Stanley Pilgrim to desk 113A!”
    “Please sign here Mr. Pilgrim.” He was handed a new certificate. It showed a picture of him with the following message:
    “To whom it may concern:
    Hereby we certify that our American citizen, Stanley Pilgrim, has taken special tests on patriotism and heritage and he finished them with success.
    And according to this certificate which we granted him he is not to be considered an enemy and it is not allowed to lash, crucify or even rape him unless there is a legal reason that would necessitate him to get punished by the soldiers of the State.
    This certificate is valid for three months only.
    Signed by the Secretary of the Department of Virtue.”
    Stan signed the damn thing and folded it into his wallet.

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