Last Thursday I was at the police station in Utrecht.
A lot of things are slipping off my mind as soon as they're gone, so I took to the habit of writing real things down for a change; and anyway, my family always enjoys a good laugh.
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 - actually a good idea, plenty of time to figure out if they need a gun or a smile - opposite to the glass goose-bump-door; and in between reception and entrance a vast lounge spreads itself out like an empty museum waiting for the pictures: plenty of room for visitors.
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 the hearts of most women (and some men) away every Christmas? How the rest of the building looked I don't know, never got higher than the ground floor.
Even in small shoe-box police stations nobody can simply walk in, must check and be check up and in this vast hall this took place in the back instead of next to the entrance.
A nice young and always smiling couple in uniform awaited me there: a man and a woman, both young and blond, hiding everything underneath their hips behind a counter and working, when nobody wanted their attention. 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.
So here we go:
"My name is Monique Jacobse, born the 16th of June, 1958 in Goor ... I have no papers and would like you to give me some." Now wasn't that short and plain? Did I ever say I'm not much of a talker and loathe being glared at?
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 and that sort of stuff, and a name was exactly what I needed - 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 - sounds a lil rediculous, I suppose, but my Mom normally couldn't stop laughing when I tried my Dutch on her - and this is sort of serious. "I'm absolutely right here and have no papers - it's your duty to arrest me."
I tried not to frown when the female watchdog stalked back to her own desk with her head sunk between her shoulders: coward! 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. What an ass, that young and nice looking female colleague of his couldn't possibly enjoy 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 - who the hell did he think he was?
I went back to the reception: "What must I do to get 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, didn't seem to be in want of an alarm button or a gun though. "Please don't pull out the plants - why don't you please go home?!"
Sorry, this story is a mess - and why? Because true stories seldem make sense...
P.S. 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