nefarious notary

I’ve been to a notary before many times. But never like this.

I arrived at a door that said “Knock. HARD.” When I did knock, I heard someone—it sounded like a combination of grandma and bulldog—emit a guttural “What?!!” I didn’t answer. I’m sure it was fear that made me silent.

With some audible grumbling, she arrived at the door. A lock clicked, and the door creaked open.
“Just here for the notary service.”

“Let me see the document.” Her accent was light Eastern European. I showed her the document with one foot splayed behind me so that I could make a quick escape, not knowing why I was afraid of a five-foot tall notary. She had a rounded shape, blue sweater and huge glasses, with grey hair wrapped up in a bun high on her head.

She made her way back to her desk, a wobble to her walk. I immediately felt like I was in the den of a witch, for whom service as a notary public had become a practical side job. There was a sneering witch figurine staring down from one of her file cabinets, which cemented my assumption.

Her office—in all of its 9' x 9' windowless glory—smelled faintly of something I could not define. Newts, maybe. Or boiling monkey livers. Something not often smelled, in any case. A political talk show played on her ancient radio, along side a typewriter—which was likely sold to her around the same time I had my braces removed.

The walls were obscured by enormous piles of beige accordion folders with cryptic messages scrawled all over them in black marker. Everywhere they climbed, like bulbous beanstalks, up at least 7 feet. Towers of them, taunting the very laws of physics in what seemed elephantine games of Jenga. Comic strips, yellowed by the years, were taped randomly on their edges. On my left, Hagar the Horrible jovially drank, unaware of his wife's rage just two panes away. On my right, Cathy was lamenting yet another swimsuit season.

I really did not want to be here anymore.

Her voice a stern rumble, she excoriated me for already having signed the document, and I apologized and swore I wouldn’t do it in the future. I thought I heard rustling in the stacks. The walls seemed a little closer than before.

She typed on my document, stamped it. After concluding our business, she seemed to warm up to me. “Did you hear about me from the computer?” Spoken as if it were a member of the community, like the barber or the mailman, who had praised her as an exemplary officer of authentication.

I took this brief warmth as an opening. Walking out the door, I turned and asked her: “So, what else do you do besides notarize?” A harmless question, friendly.

“Yes, yes.” Click. Door closed in my face.

Clearly, this woman is a Hagar-loving, liver-boiling witch. But she was fine as a notary.