the heul girl
Last Thursday I was at the police station in Utrecht.
I remember it as a big modern building with a lot of glass. Two lifts were on the right side, on the left the foreign police was squeezed next to the entrance: one of those rotating doors, that don't allow any stopping or going back and give young mothers goose bumps. The reception is way back opposite to the glass goose-bump-door, and in between these two mini-bars a vast lounge spreads itself out like an empty museum waiting for the pictures: plenty of room for visitors like me. The hall had an excellent acoustic and seemed built to sing Puccini in it, maybe the architect had dreamed of a carrier as a musician and was forced off his ambitions because he went to the same school as, eh: what's the name of that Dutch violist with the long curly hair and the orchestra who melts most women (and some men) away every Christmas? How the rest looked I don't know, never got higher than the ground floor. Even in small shoe-box police stations nobody can simply walk in, they check you up - in this vast hall the checking-up took place in the back instead of next to the entrance. A nice young and always smiling couple in uniform awaited me here: a man and a woman, both blond, hiding everything underneath their hips behind a counter and working, when nobody wanted their attention. Alas, the blond smiles were not an invitation to come in and drink a cup of tea, identification and at least one good reason were the passwords.
Here we go:
"My name is Monique Jacobse, born in XY on ... I have no papers and would like you to give me some."
They looked a little stunned - so I hurriedly added:
"One will do!"
After looking at me long enough to see that I was serious, the lady entered the information I had given in her computer, waited a little and said:
"Sorry, your name is not registered."
Surprise, surprise, surprise! I almost yawned. What did they think I was here for?
My plan was simple: if they arrested me, they'd have to make a protocol with names etc. - I actually had some underwear, a toothbrush, paper, pen and socks in my rucksack. And a book. So I told her it was her duty to arrest me, because I had no means of identifying myself.
Although I had talked to his smiling colleague all the time, the alpha-man seemed to have decided to take over, using his pen to point over my shoulder behind me:
"Over there's the foreign police, please go over there."
"I'm Dutch", I answered in English - I know that sounds silly. "I'm absolutely right here, so how about arresting me?"
I tried not to frown when the female watchdog went back to her own desk. I don't have anything against men, oh no - but most women prefer women to communicate with - men are so, eh, so...
This one was stubborn. "No, I won't do that - why don't you go home?" He demonstratively looked away, focusing his wits off that ridiculous gray-haired woman and on his real work. That young and nice looking female colleague of his couldn't possibly like working with such a - eh: cute little mini-terminator...
I seemed to be in need of a new plot, so I turned away and settled myself at one of the two tables for waiting intruders in the middle of the Puccini hall, trying to sort things out:
This isn't working, Nicki! But if you go home now, you will kick yourself in the ass at least a week for doing so.
Oh, okay: half an hour.
I'm a victim of my own honesty.
And anyway: no bloody young blond cop is going to tell me what to do and send me home to mama - who the hell did he think he was?
I went back to the reception: "What must I do to be arrested?" I asked. "Shall I pull those plants out?" This time it was my turn to point behind myself - at the plants in the middle of the hall.
He glared. "Please don't pull out the plants - why don't you please go home?!"
Sorry, this story is a mess - and why? Because it's true...
In the meantime, it's May 2014 and I still do NOT have a passport - ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you the only living zomby on earth...
© 2011, hexandthecity