Dorothy Richmond is the founder of the Dear Neighbor column and a longtime resident of Cedar-Isles-Dean.
Dear Neighbor,
One of my favorite questions is this: If you died, went to hell, got kicked out for overcrowding, then were reincarnated for eternity to work full-time at a job leaving you thinking Sisyphus got off easy — what would it be?
It’s a probing question designed to elicit and reveal our least inherent talents, greatest fears, vulnerabilities and feelings of helplessness.
The answer is easy for me: a three-way tie for CPA (too many numbers); any job that requires driving and navigating; tech support (read technology). There are others, but these are my Big Three.
All three played out one week this summer when I needed to renew my passport.
Destination: Cleveland.
Explanation: My passport expired in June, I don’t have a Real ID, and my current driver’s license is good for another three years. Two birds; one avicidal stone.
A lot has changed in ten years. Google said I could renew my passport online. Great! No driving. I got as far into the process as I would doing my own taxes: name, address, birthdate, SSN. “Upload photo” shut it all down. Getting an official passport photo alone would require driving somewhere, followed by skills far beyond my ken.
Back to Google. Offline options: DMV (no way — endless lines); Government Center (way more no way — endless lines + driving + parking downtown). That left Triple A, the least bureaucratic and closest (2.2 miles from my house, by Byerly’s in St. Louis Park), where I was helped by the friendliest and most knowledgeable Alice I’ve ever met. I recounted my harrowing online attempt and she rolled her eyes knowingly: “Don’t do that — nine out of ten are rejected — a typo or misplaced comma, and it’s all over.”
The photo: I combed my hair, sat, was told to remove my glasses and not smile. Click. Alice said she needed another shot. Recalling my two-second beautification prep, surely it was the camera’s fault, but still asked why. Alice chirped, “You look scary.” Lemme see! She was right. Static Electricity Ball scary. I tamed the mane. Click and, though far from pageant-ready, I wasn’t about to pay for a third photo (the second is free) as I’d already budgeted the procrastination rate of 30 extra dollars to expedite the renewal. I paid and Alice handed me forms and mailing envelope. I asked how long it would take to fill them out. “Twelve minutes.” Alice is a pro.
I began to fill out the forms in the waiting area but quickly became overwhelmed and went home. I was done for the day.
The next morning, fueled by coffee, black pen, and commanding dread, I got down to business. On page three (of four) I made a mistake, crossed it out, remembered Alice’s hair-raising admonition that error = rejection, and was back at Triple A where she greeted me, then growled at my blunder. She also noted that I’d addressed the envelope all wrong: regular passports and those expedited go to different locales (how was I to know? Go ask Alice), the Post Office does the deed with official stickers, and gave me a new page to correct and envelope to not sully. I finished the forms at Alice’s desk and she graded them: A+!
I told her the Post Office was the next grisly leg of this journey. “Oh, don’t do that — just go to Byerly’s; they have a Post Office right there.” It was 9:15.
Fortuna’s wheel up, then a quick downturn. I learned so much useless information on this mission, like that Byerly’s Post Office doesn’t open until 10:00. And thus, I was off to the Elmwood Post Office branch which, according to Google Maps, is a merciful one-tenth of a mile from Byerly’s, decried and denied by radical road construction.
I could see the Post Office’s American flag, but might as well have been in China to figure out how to get there. I parked in U.S. Bank’s vast lot next door but, once parked, could no longer see the flag. I asked a woman inside the bank how to get to the Post Office. She winced, as empaths do in the presence of another’s distress, and pointed out the window: “There.”
It had rained nonstop for days, and a mud-filled moat separated the bank from the Post Office, me from my passport, my sandals from further wear.
There was no line at the Post Office. I did not wonder why. The clerk knew what to do and did it. I asked her plaintively, “Can I go home?” Yes!
Next year I’ll go abroad, but for now I’m just a broad with a passport. To Cleveland.
— Dorothy
