Security checkpoint. Elevator to room 205. Antique lettering on the door of the marriage bureau, gray paint outlined in gold. Interminable wait, the beige room, the gray bucket-seats.

Lines of people staring into space. Some couples with children, others who were themselves children: teenagers, dressed like they were going to the prom. One bride in a white cotton dress and platform heels, absently clutching a bouquet of white plastic flowers.

The security guards, one black, one white, twin door spirits. Speaking an unfamiliar dialect, saying "ax" for "ask," and axing us to wait "on line." Small printed signs everywhere: Money orders only. No change. Visit us on line at http://nycmarriagebureau.com. Professional photographers not allowed.

And in the line itself, fights breaking out among people for whom "disrespect" is primarily a verb.

Twenty minutes in line to get an application, then seventy in the line to get the details of our IDs scrawled onto the application, and another thirty to hand in the money order. We came in holding hands but the waiting room broke us apart. I stood in line while A. filled in the form, and then he came up, and then we waited, and waited.

Gazed at the thick nape of the man in front of me, his hair razed down to stubble, his occipital lobe ringed with thick pimples, and in the center of one of them sat a bright drop of blood, like a spider waiting in the center of its web.

Gazed through the dim rectangle of the window at the trees that stand in front of the municipal building. The sun so bright that their leaves were just brilliant white flashes outlined in brief shadow, muted by the dusty glass.

As the line sidled along, we approached a wall festooned with ballpoint pen hearts. Luis loves Marisol forever. 7-11-2005. One scribbled bower in which two doves perched, kissing, topped by a crown and the legend "Albania."

Finally, at the end of the third line, like the troll at the end of the fairy tale, a laughing woman pulled a piece of paper out of a laser printer and handed it to us. The marriage license, pristine and still warm, black sans serif letters perfectly lined up spelling out our names. We checked it for errors and then A. lifted the flap of his bag and slid it in and squeezed my shoulder and I slid my arm around his waist. And then we walked out of there together into the blinding sun-dappled heat.

say

1. Oh, and after the whole thing, A. said ,”A capitalist is a communist who’s been waiting in line for several hours.”
   — Miranda    05.08.23, 12:47am    #
2. nice. very nice, miranda. i’m going to read it again.
   — mary    05.08.23, 3:51pm    #
3. Thanks Mary, that is high praise…
   
   Of course the very next day we learned that the Manhattan marriage bureau is like 4x as fast. Goddammit all! This entry could have been just 1/4 its length! ;)
   — Miranda    05.08.25, 12:57am    #
4. But, but … it’d have been only 1/4 as absorbing! :-)
   
   Congratulations you two. May your life together be filled with joy and nurturing.
   — Vanlal    05.08.25, 5:21am    #
5. we need volunteers to get married in every borough under otherwise identical conditions. FOR SCIENCE!
   — ranjit    05.08.25, 4:10pm    #
6. what’s wrong with “on line”? “in line” doesn’t make any sense.
   — Mike    05.08.27, 6:18pm    #
7. Also, apparently Luis broke Julio’s heart. (Only longtime New Yorkers will get this reference.)
   — Mike    05.08.27, 6:20pm    #

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