RichardDaub.com, December 2023

Late Saturday morning at the drive-thru of the Roslyn Savings Bank, straddling the frame of his Centurion Accordo Tour de France Limited Edition LXE 12-speed racing bike, savings account passbook and withdrawal slip for $60 in hand, Carl, wiping sweat from his forehead with his t-shirt sleeves, waited for the Ford Aerostar minivan ahead of him to pull away, then pedaled up to the window.

The steel drawer opened and Carl dropped in his paperwork, then watched it slide shut. Seconds later, the teller lady behind the thick glass opened the passbook to the page with the last transaction and inserted it into the little machine that printed the withdrawal transaction in purple ink. She then slid three twenty-dollar bills into a Roslyn Savings Bank envelope and dropped it and the passbook into the drawer, closing it on her side and opening it on his. He took the passbook and envelope and pedaled to a shady spot next to the parking lot, where he slid one of the twenties into his neon green Velcro wallet, then slid the other two bills into his right tube sock and the passbook into his left. Envelope empty, he dropped it in a nearby trash can and began pedaling towards the Massapequa train station.

At the station bike rack, he removed the front tire and chained it with the frame and rear wheel. He then went into the station office and purchased an off-peak, round-trip ticket to Penn Station. The escalator to the platform was slow, but it was too hot to climb the stairs. The platform smelled of melting railroad tar, and passengers were scattered about in the shady spots beneath the overhangs of the empty waiting rooms humid with urine.

A westbound train arrived ten minutes later. At Jamaica he had to change trains, commencing the journey through the graffiti-covered industrial wastelands of Queens, past the Swingline staple factory and the Amtrak yards, and the roaring descent into the ear-popping East River tunnel before the calm arrival in the steamy depths of Penn Station.

He followed the crowd through the terminal, ignoring the homeless people asking for money, and up a series of escalators until he was finally back out in the heat. The air smelled of hot pretzels and cigarettes, and the Madison Square Garden marquee advertised the Ringling Brothers circus. It was even hotter here than back home, and a fresh layer of sweat formed atop the caked layer from earlier as he made his way up Seventh Avenue.

Several blocks later, the 25¢ XXX peep show joints started to appear. At 39^th Street, he encountered a small store advertising passport photos and identification cards. The sample laminated IDs in the window looked cheap and unofficial, and it didn’t seem like the kind of place that would have the proper equipment to produce an authentic-looking New York State driver’s license. Of course, it may have been a front and they were secretly making them in the back, but he was convinced that only on 42^nd Street would he find one of these places.

The sidewalks on 42^nd were crowded and he passed numerous hustlers offering weed, crack, and sex. He made no eye contact and kept moving. There were plenty of these little photo stores, but they looked no different than the ones he’d already passed. He headed west towards Eighth Avenue, then crossed the street and headed back towards Seventh. After passing several more photo stores, he decided to go into the next one he encountered.

There was a window air conditioner above the front door and the cool air felt good. The store smelled of cigarette smoke. On a stool behind the counter sat a motionless, overweight man.

Carl approached.

The man said nothing and stared at him.

“Excuse me,” Carl finally said, annoyed at the uncertainty in his voice, “I was wondering if, you know, you make custom New York State driver’s licenses?”

“Identification card,” he said.

“Well, yes, but I need one that looks like a real, official New York State driver’s license. Know what I mean?”

“Yes. Identification card. See sample.”

The man reached under the counter and produced a wicker basket full of various styled “IDENTIFICATION CARDS” no better than the ones he’d already seen. All were photos of the man behind the counter, including several in which he was wearing a wig and makeup.

There was another photo store just next door, but this one proved no different, nor did the one next door to that.

Tired, hungry, sweating, he admitted defeat and decided to head back to Penn. He had just turned the corner at Seventh Avenue when he heard someone behind him say, “Yo, Suburbs!”

He turned to see a man in a green and white “Newport Pleasure” t-shirt looking at him.

“What you looking for, Suburbs?” he asked. “I got green.”

“I’m looking for a real-looking New York State Driver’s license.”

“Yeah, man, I got a guy up the block who can do that. He got a print shop in the back with a machine that can do that.”

“How much?”

“Fifty.”

“I don’t have fifty.”

“He might do forty-five.”

“I only have forty.”

“Forty? Alright, alright, I can work with that. Follow me.”

Carl felt uneasy, but he followed the man across Seventh Avenue to a red-tiled stairwell that led to the downstairs of a Kennedy Fried Chicken establishment.

“My man’s shop is down here,” he said.

Carl followed him down the stairs to the kitchen, where uniformed workers were prepping and frying the chicken, but none of them paid them any mind.

“I can’t take you past this point,” the man said to Carl. “I need your money, dude.”

“Where’s the machine?” Carl asked, looking around.

“It’s in the back, just back there,” he said, pointing towards a corridor on the other side of the kitchen. “My man doesn’t allow just anyone to go back to his print shop. I have to show him the cash before I bring anyone in.”

Carl looked towards the corridor, then back at the guy.

“I don’t like this.”

“You don’t like what?”

“I’m not giving you the money until I see the print shop.”

“Then you ain’t gettin’ no fuckin’ license, dude. I have to bring him the cash first, then I come back when he’s ready for you. But don’t worry, Suburbs, you can trust me. Where the fuck am I gonna go? There ain’t nowhere else to go from here except to the fuckin’ print shop.”

After a moment of indecision, Carl reached into his sock and handed over the two sweat-soaked twenty-dollar bills.

“Wait right here and don’t move,” the man said. “I’ll be back in ten minutes, then you’ll get your license. Don’t move. Ten minutes.”

The man departed, maneuvering through the deep fryers and prep stations before disappearing into the corridor.

After a minute, Carl began to sense the workers discreetly making fun of him.

After two minutes, he knew the man wasn’t coming back, but he waited the full ten minutes anyway before crossing the kitchen.

He entered the corridor and encountered a turn that led to another turn that brought him back to the same stairwell he and the man had descended earlier.

He stopped and looked up at the people walking by on the sidewalk, then began to climb. ▪