Alternately titled: Making a Murderer II
I have told this story several times over the past few days and the reaction is always the same. There is no “oh, that’s funny ha, ha,” but rather a gasping scream of laughter that may or may not have an end. I personally, have shed more tears of laughter than I can speak of.
And so it is that I have to share this. I must. It is my civic responsibility to share and when you are done reading you will understand that I may or may not owe a debt to society now, or possibly in the future.
I am applying for my carte de sejour in Morocco which will allow me to stay longer than 90 days in the country. Additionally, I will be able to buy a car one day maybe, as well as, you know, paying more taxes to my host nation. It requires a lot of papers and I have been “in the process” for years now, but the stupid papers “expire” in their usefulness after 3 months which is a Moroccan limitation I have to pay attention to.
One item on my list of papers is a criminal background check. For the first application I need one from Canada. Next time it will be from Morocco. A few years ago I got one from the Toronto Police Service but I think that was wrong. It had all the information on it and I’m confident it would have “passed” the check box, maybe. But regardless, 3 months went by and I didn’t do anything with it and it was no good.
This year, my friend who has done this before, told me that I could go to a place in the building behind the other building across from the bus terminal to get the process rolling. I had information from the Internet saying I had to go to RCMP HQ near the airport which turned out to be a run around and that’s funny because most things relating to this process are a run around so at least it’s consistent.
I knew exactly the place she was talking about and I was confident I could muddle through finding the office. One day I was out errand-ing, and I was near that building so I stopped in. Found the little office no problem. I was the only one there. The process was simple and it goes like this:
1 – Submit two pieces of photo ID. The nice lady input all the details. I check my Words with Friends games.
2 – “Come here and check the information please.” I lean over the computer screen and scan my details. All is correct.
3 – “Stand here.” Photo.
4 – “Bring me your fingers.” Scanned all 10 digits in the electronic finger print scanner.
5 – “Payment please.” Debit card offered, $80.25 submitted.
Off I go on my merry way, without much of a care in the world. I go about my business.
One day I check the mailbox and there is an envelope from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I sit in the living room with my roomies parents (who are visiting) chatting away about nothing in particular and I mindlessly open the envelope. I glance down.
I AM A CRIMINAL.
There on the page, looking up at me like the future I would have had if I had not finished school, is my face.
(It should be pointed out that if I were telling this story in person, at this point I would be laughing so hard I’d be unable to continue.)
Staring up at me is this atrocity.
OH THE HORROR. Or should I say, whore-or? What the actual hell happened!?????
I may have been declared as having no criminal background, but with a mug shot like that I am DESTINED to become one.
There has been widespread, international appeal for a do-over but at $80.25 for the process I would need a Go Fund Me page to go that far. I am sincerely hoping that the only people to see this are the man at the moqatr (sp) and ……Interpol?
One of my friends said, “There is nothing right in that photo.Every thing is wrong.” You’re telling me buddy.
In my defense, it was hot. I was not planning on having my photo taken that day. It barely registered that she was even taking a photo. I wasn’t wearing makeup. The mirror in my apartment was hung by a women who is 5’4″ and only really reveals my chin unless I really duck down and even then I don’t bother half the time. Maybe there had been a windstorm. Let’s assume that to be true.
Anyway. Now you know. That’s it. My dirty little secret. I’m not a criminal. Yet.