Are my eyes really brown?

Given the title of my last post, the following quote from Casablanca seems appropriate:


Major Strasser: We have a complete dossier on you: Richard Blaine, American, age 37. Cannot return to his country. The reason is a little vague. We also know what you did in Paris, Mr. Blaine, and also we know why you left Paris.
[hands the dossier to Rick]
Major Strasser: Don't worry, we are not going to broadcast it.
Rick: [reading] Are my eyes really brown?

Now, before I begin, I realize the irony in having this post right next to the one wherein I extolled the virtues of my favorite system of transportation, Trax (and I still love you, T! We'll always have Paris/the weeks before yesterday!) yet Fate gave me a pretty cruel slap in the face yesterday, while Coincidence laughed in my face and Irony smirked on the sidelines. I also realize that you, faithful readers, are just as likely to laugh along with them and make fun of me rather than commiserate, but here I go anyway.

So Wednesday, Matt came up to Sandy to exercise with me, cook dinner, and do some homework. It was lovely. Until Thursday morning, that is, when I realized I had accidentally left my wallet in his car, which was now back in Orem. I had already broken the law by this point in driving to the Trax station. But I thought I was all right to use Trax since, some time ago, I had taken my bus pass out of my wallet and put it in a different pocket of my purse, for convenience.

I had no trouble on my way to work. By this time I had called Matt and he promised to come up after work with the wallet. On my home from work, however, DISASTER STRUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Ok. So maybe not quite disaster. But I will call your attention to the following unlikely scenarios that took place:

FACT A: Now and then, Trax officials are supposed to walk along the cars and make sure everyone on board has paid and can prove they have a ticket and all that.

FACT B: In the past month of riding Trax, this has only happened to me ONCE.

FACT C: When it did, all I did was pull out my bus card and the official barely glanced at it.

So back to yesterday. Here come the officials. One of them, of course, immediately stops at me and asks to see my I.D. along with my UTA card. I reach automatically for the wallet.

IT'S NOT THERE.

I panic. I have no I.D. I do have an employee card around my neck, but I've forgotten about that (it's not picture I.D. anyway, so it probably wouldn't work) and the only thing I have with my name on it is my checkbook. Sooo.... the following conversation ensues.

"You don't have any kind of I.D. at all?" The employee gives me an incredulous look, complete with raised eyebrow.

"No..." I stammer. "This is really the only day this month I've been without it. I left it in my boyfriend's car last night but he's coming to give it to me today."

(Like he's never heard THAT one before. Why do I keep babbling on? There's no way he's going to believe me. I don't even believe myself. What are the odds that the ONE day I forget my I.D., the official shows up?)

"You do know you have to have I.D., right? So you can prove this is really you." He's waving my bus pass in the air now, accusingly.

"Yes, of course."

Actually, I didn't really know this. I've used the bus in Orem for the past 5 years without ever having to show any kind of I.D. beyond the bus pass card.

"You have so many bags. You really don't have I.D.?" The employee shakes his head - he can't believe that anyone capable of speech could reach the level of stupidity required to forget one's I.D. when riding the train.

"N-no."

(JUST KIDDING, I HAVE IT IN MY HAT!!!! HA HA HA HA!!!!!!)

Shamefaced, I attempt to hide my pitiful purse, lunch bag, and book, the extent of the "many" bags to which he refers.

"Ok. About how tall are you?" He pulls out a mouthpiece.

(Uh-oh. I'm getting arrested. He's citing me. Why don't I know my height!!!???")

"Um, 5'4...?"

"And your weight?" He pauses.

?!!!?!??!!!!??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!?!??!???!?!??!!!!????????

I consider whispering it in his ear or writing it down on a piece of paper, for privacy's sake, but by now the humiliation really can't get any worse. All the passengers are listening intently.

"Um, [a three digit number]?"

I weigh quite a bit less now than what I put on my driver's license, but the employee still stares at me suspiciously.

"[Three digit number]?" He says loudly, to make up for my too-close-to-a-whispered reply.

"Y-yes." I consider giving him the 'muscle weighs more than fat, you know' spiel, but he's already off on the next question.

"Your eye color?"

"Green."

Now, I do have green eyes. I looked in the mirror at them last night, and I honestly cannot believe I ever had any doubt about their color. Yet apparently I did doubt at one time, when I was 16, because my driver's license says that they are blue.

I remember this unfortunate fact too late.

"My driver's license says they're blue, though." I pipe up, helpfully.

The employee looks suspicious.

"Why?"

"Well, my mom thinks they're blue, and she told me to put that, so I did."

Once again, I look at the employee's face and I know that to him this must sound wilder and crazier than the tale of Pecos Bill. But it's the truth, and I stick to my story when the employee reiterates his "But, why?" in disbelief, sure that I can't be serious, sure that no human being is capable of mixing up green and blue eyes.

The employee is exasperated. He puts all the information into his speaker. He hovers over my seat for the next five minutes, lecturing me on the need to always have my I.D. with me, and then, finally finally FINALLY, he hands my bus pass back to me and leaves. Apparently, fudged height, weight, and eye color withstanding, there is a Ruth Miller on record who sort of resembles me.

Those who know me will perhaps not be surprised at this point that I start to bawl uncontrollably. It's only the embarrassment of being stared at that's let me hold it in for this long. But the people on the train are hardly paying attention anymore. Most of them are very deliberately looking away, for which I can hardly blame them. Not only had I just distinguished myself as the [three digit number] pound, clueless, blue/green-eyed teller of tall tales and sob stories, but I'd also had a nose-bleed that day and hadn't washed my hair since Sunday.

Fortunately, the story ends on a happier note.

When I got home - and I can only presume it was due to the kindness of some guardian angel (mine had obviously taken the afternoon off) that I wasn't stopped and given a ticket on the 10 minute trip home - my dear, sweet boyfriend Matt was waiting for me with my wallet and a soon-to-be-drenched-in-the-tears-and-sobs-of-humiliation long-sleeved shirt when I arrived at my Sandy home. After several hours of consolation, during which he made sure to say all the right things ("It's my fault," "You're beautiful," "Of course they wouldn't arrest you - you're too cute . . ."), a much-needed 30 minute shower, and dinner, I was feeling considerably better. In fact, I almost felt well enough to stop checking my purse every five minutes to MAKE SURE that my wallet was still there. I can tell you right now that my wallet and I are going to be nearly inseparable from this point forward. Even closer than me and Trax. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.