Erin Schallmoser

John at the Washington State Department of Licensing

asks me if I live nearby, instructs me to come back with my certified marriage license so he can prove a link between my two names, writes me what he calls a hall pass so I can actually come back the same day instead of waiting another 30 days for an appointment, tells me to get his attention when I come back, says bright colors and big movements usually do it for him, feathers his fingers over my marriage license when I return with it less than half an hour later, says that’s the embossment we’re looking for, asks if I got married in the part of Florida that’s still inside the United States and I don’t realize it’s a joke at first, and I think that embarrasses him, goes out the back door for a smoke once he’s done with my application and he must recognize me from inside my car because he waves his hand at me as I drive by just like I had waved my hand at him when I returned. The movement catches my eye and I turn my head to find the origin but I recognize him too late to wave in return. And driving past him, I am left to smile to myself, exclaiming John, that was John! as I turn left through the parking lot, leaving him behind with his name, the same as my father’s, and his half-smoked cigarettes and his half-baked jokes and his impossible optimism.