The Ferry Notary’s Second Signature¶
The woman arrived late, her heels slapping the linoleum like a metronome set to panic. I knew that sound—the ferry to Vashon left at 3:14, and the cafeteria doors swung shut at 3:12. She’d miss it unless she could convince someone to bend.
I was that someone. Not by policy, but by habit. My rule—always verify the signature’s ink against the applicant’s driver’s license—had gone out the window six months ago, when Mrs. Callahan tried to mail a forged power of attorney to her son in Bremerton. Her hands shook too much to fake confidence. I’d stamped it anyway.
The remote control lay dead on the counter between us, its buttons corroded, label flaking off. Someone had taped a handwritten sticky note over the top: “Volume.”
“You’re here for the notary,” I said, not a question.
She slid a form across the table. “My brother’s supposed to pick me up, but his car’s in the shop. This is a… a temporary guardianship for his kids. I need it notarized before the ferry leaves.”
The form was blank except for her name, Linda, and a smudge where the notary seal should’ve been.
I picked up the remote. It hummed, though it hadn’t worked since the ‘76 World Series. The sticky note began to shimmer.
“Your brother’s name?” I asked.
“Dan.”
The remote’s label changed: “Dan’s Permission.”
I stamped the form. The ink bled into the smudge, filling it with neat, official-looking script.
Linda blinked. “How’d you…?”
“Rule’s rules,” I said, waving her off. The cafeteria clock ticked 3:13. “Run.”
She did.
Years later, I’d tell people the remote was a gag gift from a coworker, that the labels changed because some intern had a label maker and too much time. But that’s not how it felt then.
The ferry terminal promoted me three months after Linda’s visit. They said it was for “efficiency.” I think they noticed I never turned down a same-day request, even when the paperwork smelled like desperation.
I still use the remote. The label changes every time I touch it—“Approve,” “Ignore,” “Ask Again”—but I never look.
Last week, a man came in with a form identical to Linda’s. Same smudge. Same blank spaces.
I stamped it without asking.
He smiled. “My sister said you’d be the kind who helps.”
I didn’t ask which sister.
The ferry to Vashon leaves at 3:14. Always has. Always will.
But the cafeteria’s portable freezer—stocked with popsicles and leaking ammonia—still smells like burnt coffee and saltwater. Some things, you can’t forge.