A Fingerprints Tail
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So, about 2 months ago, I was approached by virtual school group looking for an OT to do virtual sessions with the homebound and/or virtual school kids. I have heard of this but wondered how in the world you could provide the type of care that I give out at 150% to each of my OT kids and their families, as I get loads of information from the energy these kids and parents emit, in person at the clinic.
Out of total curiosity, only after letting the contract lady know that I would not be able to continue if I didn’t feel the care I was giving the OT kid was up to the level that I absolutely need to provide, I agreed to give it a whirl with this aforementioned caveat. She agreed that I could give it a year’s try and then decide if I wanted to continue.
Okay, here’s where my journey really begins . . .
The sweet virtual school lady tells me she needs all kinds of stuff from my OT license, OT registration, liability insurance, and lastly my fingerprints for a background check both from the FBI and Alabama’s records as well and oh, by the way, you pay for this. Seems a little over-kill but okay. However, I did point out that it might not be necessary as I have a military ID and a background check had to be done to get this, would this do? No, no, I have to do it their way. Fine.
Let the tail begin . . .
I figured out what I needed after 45 frustrating minutes on the two separate websites for the FBI and Alabama’s law stuff, filled the paperwork out, paid the fees, and printed off the papers for my fingerprints. For some odd reason, Alabama wants two copies of your fingerprints and the FBI only wants one. Okay, whatever.
I figure out where I have to go to get them and amazingly enough, find the time in my extremely tight schedule and off I go. I go to the building that I looked up on a cold rainy day, and upon entering the building, I spy a fella behind a pulpit of a desk, as it was sitting quite high, and I kindly ask him where I go to get fingerprints. He raises an eyebrow and says, “Why do you need fingerprints pretty lady?” Oh, great, an interrogator. I kindly tell him, with some bit of irritation, that it is for a job I have taken on and he points to a window with a tall older gentleman behind it and about 5 people in line. Sigh, as I am on borrowed time.
I wait in line, with some semblance of patience, and the folks in front of me, a lovely older couple, step up to the window and tell the tall man that they need the police report for the vehicle that was stolen out of their driveway the day before while they were gardening in their backyard. I gasped and the sweet geriatric citizen lady turns around and says this, “Ya, and the man that stole it was in such a hurry, he wrecked it on the getaway just about 5 blocks from our house.” Not able to help myself, I say, “What a dumb ass!” The geriatric citizen husband turns around and says, “My thoughts exactly.” Bless them. They finish, shuffle along, and then it’s my turn only, tall dude has disappeared. I wait and wait and wait and finally, he comes back asking if he can help me. I tell him about the fingerprints and he says that I am in the wrong building, that I need to go to the building next door. Fantastic!
It has really started raining but I am trying my hardest to hang on to my patience because time is running out.
I pull up to the ‘other’ building, get out, and I’m met with some very scary and unsavory citizens. I take a deep breath and enter the building. Turning left, I wait in line, again, behind two ladies with horrible situations that they are not whispering about to the two ladies behind the glass, no, they are using their outside voices. One has been given some sort of citation by her ex-husband, something about her harassing him, and man is she pissed but graciously trying to laugh it off as she apparently knows the lady behind the glass from somewhere else.
The other lady/girl, who is about 5 foot nothing and weighs about 35 pounds with so much hair I dare say I had no idea how she didn’t break her tiny neck with all of it. She informs the lady that her boyfriend committed suicide last night in her apartment while she was at work. I gasp again, only quieter as not to be heard because time was running out and I didn’t have a moment to hug this tiny person and tell her that I would pray for her, which pains me not to do, though I prayed for her anyway in my head. They finish up and now it’s my turn.
I step up to the glass, tell the two ladies what I need, they ask for my paperwork, I hand it to them, and they say, “Uh oh . . . ” What? There’s no uh oh! I did every stinking thing it said. “Well, we don’t do fingerprints on these forms anymore because they bleed too bad so you will need to go to the spy shop on the corner and get the cards.” Lovely. I bid them adieu. Go back out into the rain, skirt the unsavory citizens who are now looking at me like they might eat my eyeballs out of my face, get back in my car, and go to the spy shop.
Well, this spy shop is for citizens who do not trust or like a significant other, a babysitter, and millions of other reason why people spy on other people. I was a little edgy as I got out of my car and oh yeah, one of my OT parents sees me, as she is stopped at a red light alongside this place, rolls her window down, and says, “You got trust issues, lady?” I chuckle and yell back, “No, I have to get fingerprint cards for that virtual job I was telling you about.” She waves, as the light turns green and takes off.
Once inside, I am blown away by the high tech equipment for spying. I have an interesting conversation with the lady behind the counter about all the crap she has seen over the years and uncomfortably stand next to a lady who is sobbing as she suspects her husband is cheating on her and needs everything possible to nab him. Jeez!
Well, the way this building is situated on the corner, I would have to get back out into traffic, circle around, get back on the main road, and then exit off again to get to the fingerprint place. Instead, I hopped the curb, cut through an empty field, and ended up back on the road that leads me to the building again, while a cop watched me do this waiting at a stop sign to get back into traffic. I almost threw up as I looked at him, but luckily he gave me the thumbs up. Whew!
Back at the building, I skirt the ‘eyeball eaters’ again, go back in, present my cards, and give them my license and ATM card. “Uh oh . . .” Shut the front door, now what? “Um, you have to pay with cash.” Mother trucker. Sighing, they both tell me that there is an ATM in the other building I was just in and oh, by the way, they don’t charge a fee. Well, there’s the lining I guess as well as everything is close, so okay, I will trek on.
I get to the other building, go in, and pulpit guy says, “Oh, you’re back. Did you miss me that much?” I wanted to take the umbrella I had in my hand and charge him with it but alas, I only had a bit of time left. I laughed a fake laugh and found the ATM and oh yes, there is a fee of $2.95 to use it. Woohoo! This is the best day ever.
I drive back to the other building, skirt the unsavories, and drag myself up to the window again. I pass everything they need under their protective glass and the older lady gets going with the transaction . . . “Uh oh….” Oh my freaking, Lord, I am about to lose my cool. The other lady, who has kinda been rooting for me, looks at the other lady and says, “Oh my gosh, Gertrude, please tell me she doesn’t have to go anywhere else?” I say, “Yes, Gertrude, I am about to lose my cool here. I don’t have the energy or the time to jump through any more hoops.”
She points out that I wrote my SS number in the wrong place on the card and the rules are you cannot cross out or draw an arrow to the spot either. I say, “Listen, I will take my chances as the Alabama folks need two copies and I am assuming that this one could stay on file or something. Please for the love of Frances, just let me get my fingerprints!” She shrugs and says, “Ok, but if it comes back to you not done, it’s on you.” Fine, good Lord Almighty!
Now, I have never had fingerprints done in my life so this was new. Gertrude got the honors of printing my fingers 3 times and it was a pain in the ass as she kept saying, “Will you relax! Let me move your hand! Look away for crying out loud! Go to sleep if you have to.” Gertrude, I’m gonna take that ink pad, roll my fist over it, and punch your little lights out with an imprint of my fist on your face, you little turd! We SOMEHOW, by the grace of God, get it all done. By this time I am sweating, what I do when I get extremely irritated, and my fist is inching toward that ink.
And do you know what Gertrude says to me on the way out? “If you get the prints sent back because you wrote your social in the wrong place, be a dear and bring us back some coffee.” GIVE ME THAT DAMN INK!!!
By this time, I had lost my cool with that last statement from the turd called Gertrude so when I stepped out into the rain again and the unsavories wanted to eat my eyeballs, I wanted to say, “Bring it on, freaks, I’ve got so much irritation and anger built up, I will take all of y’all out!!! Bring it!!!”
The moral of the story is . . . never believe what the internet says, always have cash in your wallet (I never do as my children are thieves-not really but they always borrow it), be sure to go to the proper building, and hide your face as you enter the spy shop.
What a freaking day and if by chance my prints are sent back, I will poison the coffee I bring to Gertrude and as she slips into a pre-death coma, I will roll my fist into the ink and knock her little lights the rest of the way out!
Love y’all!!
