I just rented a storage space from a man named Jimmy Knuckles.
OK, that’s not entirely accurate: I rented a storage space from the associate of a man named Jimmy Knuckles, but I saw Mr. Knuckles’ card on the desk while I was filling out my paper work.
“Your colleague has an AWESOME name,” I told friend of Knuckles.
He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah. He’s not, like, in the mob or anything, either. He’s from Florida. Has a southern accent and everything.”
And then? Mr. Knuckles’ business associate pushed a little hockey-puck shaped thing across the table to me, and flipped it open to reveal a fingerprint pad.
“We need your left index finger, your right index finger, and your right thumb.” He said, as though asking for the actual digits themselves, not the prints.
“Wow,” I said, weakly. “You don’t mess around.”
And then, all of a sudden, I felt super sketchy. This happens to me a lot, and it’s a primary reason why I’m generally not up to anything. I know I’d never get away with it. But the dude asked me for my fingerprints, as if I were a criminal, and then, all of a sudden, I started to feel like a criminal. I felt my eyes shift from side to side, as though searching for an excuse not to give him my criminal, shifty, outlaw fingerprints.
“This’ll be fun to explain back at work!” I said brightly.
“It washes off.” He said, staring at me as he pushed a box of tissues across the table. And no doubt feeling around on the floor for the silent alarm.