The Diplodocus

Though I've had my share of work stories, few jobs are as story-worthy as manning the Visa window.  Unfortunately, few stories are as ill-suited for public consumption, mostly because the details are lost on those who haven't had the experience of doing consular work, or don't have time for extensive scene-setting that may or may not involve props, hand movements, and vivid descriptions of odor. 

But there are days when I get really, really frustrated and need to vent, albeit slightly.  This frustration goes beyond quoting arcane reg numbers and straight to the great man's inhumanity to man category.  Obviously, today was one of those days. 

On one of my very last interviews, I called up three women ranging from 50ish to 7ish — that is, a grandmother, her daughter, and her granddaughter (or so they claimed).  After interviewing them, judging them ineligible based on the law, and giving them the denial speech about three or four times, the grandmother says to me (with the universally-standard "I implore you" look) "Forget about them, what about me, can't you just give me a Visa?"  And proceeds to repeat that until Security had to push her away.

Like that is going to arouse any sympathy in my already hardened heart. 

Unrelated: Somehow, the paragraph breaks on my last post have disappeared.  Now it reads like crappy Faulkner.  Sorry about that.   Wish I had the energy to fix that, but I'm reading what may as well be the prequel to Ghost Wars and you know what takes precedence.