Today I had two goals. Walk downtown to get my ORCA discounted bus pass and fill out the application for a new social security card. Naturally, walking in a new city alone, I packed my pocket knife. I never really got scared walking in Memphis because I know how to walk in that city – rarely. So far, walking in downtown Seattle doesn’t require that much situational awareness but new is new. I may be Memphis as fuck but it never hurts to have backup.
Walking through City Center near the Space Needle I took my camera out and started shooting everything that caught my eye. I happened upon this dome sculpture that erupted into a water fountain almost immediately after I turned the corner. I took pictures of everything from lines painted on the ground to the Needle itself. I passed the Chihuly and EMP museums before entering downtown proper. Once on 4th, heading south, I start to see parts of downtown I recognize. I’m literally a 15 minute walk from the convention center where they hold PAX. A hop, skip, and jump away from the Seattle Aquarium and Pike Place Market. I’m truly a city mouse now!
After securing my low-cost bus pass, I confidently saunter down to the Social Security Administration office. Living in a new city isn’t so hard after all. Entering the building, I see a security station. I immediately regret bringing my knife. Slipping it in the camera case so I can at least pretend I forgot it was there. The officer scanning the xray pinched the bridge of his nose and asks, “Is that your camera bag?”
I nod and wince, “Pocket knife?”
He nods, “Where is it?”
I reach for the bag to pull out the knife. Typing that now, I can see how the action itself is stupid. Who reaches for the knife in her bag after a person in uniform asks where it is? I do, I guess. He snaps, “I’ll,” snatches the bag from my hands, “… get it out.”
I throw up jazz hands in the universal “oops” gesture. I just can’t think of myself as a threatening person. In his world, threats could come from anywhere. I get that. It just took me a minute to be on that wavelength. It’s the same reason I pretty much can’t get mad at TSA agents. Or nurses. Once produced, I eagerly let him confiscate the knife with an apology for having it. Not that much sentimental value in the object compared to appearing disappointed I couldn’t sneak my knife into a government building. Mentally I’m face-palming at my ignorance.
Crisis averted, the officer returns to his seat and proceeds to scan my computer bag. He stops the conveyor belt again. He lets out a heavy sigh while rolling his eyes. I defensively ask, “What now?”
“Marijuana pipe,” he states flatly.
“Oh,” cheeks flush, “yeah. Oops.” I giggle nervously. The officer then informs me that I will have to wait for the federal officers to come talk to me. I joke, “We can’t just throw that away too?” I intone sarcastically.
“No,” he states without humor. The officer asks where my ID is and when I reach for my bag he pulls it away and says “Just tell me where it is. You,” he gestures to a couch, “have a seat.”
I almost say that I’d prefer to stand but at that point, I recognize an age-old fluttering fear in my gut. That unsettling feeling you get when a police officer is following you in traffic. I try to ignore the man rifling through my purse and fight back my flight response. I remain calm on the outside but in my head I’m running through the worst case scenarios. They might give me a fine. They might lock me up. Oh god, they might make me go back to Memphis!
In my heart, I know I’ve done nothing wrong except first degree dumbassery. I already know Federal buildings are considered Federal property and are subject to Federal laws. My dad was a Federal Postal Inspector. None of this matters to the guy patiently explaining to me the things I already know. All I can do is smile, nod and do whatever they tell me to do. Just like when you’re caught speeding – keep your mouth shut and pretend to be stupid until proven otherwise. By the time the feds show up I feel like I might cry but keep complacently smiling.
An officer in a black uniform bedecked in military-grade handheld communication devices approaches. He’s decidedly more attractive than the original officer whom I suspect is actually a trumped up security guard. The new Officer is flanked by two cronies with fewer walkies – but they are all three wearing bulletproof vests. After conferring with the guard the Officer speaks into a walkie to give a disembodied woman’s voice my pertinent information. At this point I realize they are reading the name off my old ID. “Oh no, not that one. I have a new ID. That’s why I’m here, I got my name changed.”
The Federal officer sees me for the first time, seemingly surprised I spoke at all. The two men exchange an exasperated glance. The security officer reaches into my bag and pulls out the pack of cards I keep in one pocket. As he’s sorting through them I point to the upside-down ID that I can see from my side. I’m fumbling how to describe to him which card he is wants but for some reason my communication abilities are failing me. He finally fans out my messy stack of business cards, receipts, and plastic so I can pull out the correct one. Like a bad magic trick, I hand them my newer ID. The Federal officer compares the two and states into the walkie, “We have two different ID’s here. One looks possibly altered.”
I involuntarily guffaw and he looks at me. I assuredly state, “Oh no, those are both me. I had my name changed recently. That’s why I’m here,” a hint of pleading in my voice, “to update my social security card.” I was genuinely tickled that they thought I’d have a fake ID. Flattered they thought I’d have one that good too.
The Officer gives me a hard look and then looks down at the two identifications. One of his cronies stage whispers, “Why would they look so different?”
“One of them is over 8 years old,” I indirectly answer.
The lead guy seems convinced at that point but junior takes my old license and starts giving it a thorough going-over with his flashlight. Clearly he expects to earn a promotion by proving me wrong. I only have eyes for the lead officer. He’s obviously the one that has my fate in his hands. I catch a gleam in his eye as he asks, “How long have you been in Seattle?”
“About 3 days.” I’m involuntarily grinning from ear to ear as I say this.
He fingers the small baggie of Sour Diesel that was in the pocket with my pipe. “So, already taking part in our recreational pot smoking?”
I automatically dropped the party line, “A friend gave me that.”
This time he guffaws and says, “Don’t do that. I know this is yours.”
I keep my mouth shut. Still smiling, “I honestly forgot it was in there.”
The Officer nods and dutifully stares me down while updating his disembodied co-worker with the pertinent facts. He then turns away and mutters something I can’t quite make out. She asks him to repeat my name – a pattern I’m accustomed to – and goes silent for a few minutes. A garbled response I didn’t quite catch signals the all clear and the cronies turn away, disinterested.
Mr. Officer looks at me and says very clearly, “Look, I don’t want to arrest you.”
I nod, silent.
“This IS an arrest-able offense and if I take this,” holding the bag and pipe in his gloved hands, “I would have to arrest you. So I’m going to give this back to you and let you go out that exit. You can take it home and come back or just go home and try again tomorrow.”
“Could just throw it away outside and come right back in?” I ask plaintively.
“You could throw it away right there if you want,” he points to a gold trash can, “but you don’t have to throw it away. I just can’t take it from you because then I would have to arrest you. So I’m allowing you to take it and leave.”
I smile and look him directly in the eye as I enunciate, “Okay. Thank you.”
He nods his assent and I quickly pack up my bags and my camera – they even gave me back the pocket knife. As I passed the Officer to leave I repeat, “Thank you, officer.”
He smile back and says jovially, “It happens more often than you think.”