On file

A few weeks ago I applied to be a mentor in a program to help “at risk” youth. Most of you already know this because I had to write the name, phone number, social security number and shoe size of every person I’ve ever met since birth. If you know my name, the mentoring program probably called you to ask if I ever molested you. Hopefully you lied and told them that I didn’t.

But the reference check, background check and full cavity search were still not enough. Last night I completed the last step of the application process – the fingerprinting.

It’s sort of a nerve-wracking process, fingerprinting. I couldn’t help think, as each one of my fingertips was smudged into the ink, do I have any criminal record that I’m forgetting about? As my black fingers were then pressed onto the sheet, I thought through any possible illegal activity that I might be on file for… jay-walking ticket? No. DUI? Nope, never got one of those. I did get caught for shoplifting once in Junior High, but that was by my mom, not the police. No, as far as I can recall, I’ve never been arrested.

But now, I am officially on file. My fingerprints are in the system. There goes any chance of a future life of crime for me. Damn.

The the premature death of my career as an outlaw: