A Year In New York

I am back from my West Coast trip, and naturally the first thing I did was visit the Marriage License Bureau at City Hall. I mean, wouldn’t you?

(I was there because…uh…how can I explain this one…on the way back from the airport this guy on the bus yelled that my Surf City t-shirt was so ugly that I ought to go to City Hall for a …uh…Wearage License. You understand.)

So anyway, I walked into the Marriage License Bureau (did I mention I was by myself?) and found the place was crowded though the doors had just opened. The worn, Lysol-scrubbed hallway was a hubbub of people in ties and dresses, hugging each other.

In the Applications room, no less than thirteen couples were in line, black couple / Chinese couple / white-Asian / white-Asian / white-white / black-Latina. Sitting at one window were two Hasidic Jewish men, one fiftyish and one thirtyish, curls danging as they leaned in toward each other affectionately.

I inquired at the desk and it looks like I might be in luck. The woman looked me up and down and said I could qualify for a provisional Wearage License if I returned with two forms of ID and a receipt for a $100 purchase from Filene’s Basement.