“Regrets are as personal as fingerprints.”
– Margaret Culkin Banning
Occasionally one of my jobs at the front desk is to help with fingerprinting customers. Usually Officer Lampost does this but if he’s running security somewhere on campus, sick, or on vacation, I’m your girl. Fingerprinting is one of those standard services a police department offers, we do them digitally, but I’m convinced that the customers we get are no where close to standard issue.
You get the averages weirdos, the people with really sweaty hands, the older men who lean against you and sniff your hair, and such. But then, you get the even more bizarre types.
Like the girl who came in, said she needed her fingerprints taken, paid, and then sat down and opened up a book.
“Ma’am, you’ll need to come with me so I can fingerprint you.”
“Oh, can’t you just go get them?” she asked in surprise.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Can’t you just go print them off for me?”
“Have you had your fingerprints taken here before?”
“No. Why, don’t you have them ready?”
“Um…we have to prepare them – ”
“Well, do you need me for that?” she asked, with perfect sincerity.
Then there was the gentleman, about my own age, who needed fingerprints done for a job application. I’d typed all his information into the program and then said that I needed his right hand to start the process. His lips compressed but he allowed me to direct his hands and then fingers one at a time to the scanner. When I was done he shook himself like I was a rodent and turned a religious, baleful eye on me.
“Do you think what happened just now was appropriate?”
Pen poised above the line for my signature on the form, I froze. “I’m sorry?”
“You hitting on me like that? In a place of business?”
“Sir, I’m afraid – ”
“Really, it’s disgusting. I’m married.”
“So am I, sir. And I promise that under no circumstances would I ever hit on you,” I said, meaning it with all my heart.
“Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath before snatching his prints and stalking out.
Like I said…weird.