Sunday, February 28th, 2021

The storefront for the transit pass is crowded. Two people are sitting near the door. A worker is helping a third at the desk. I’m not sure if there’s room for a fourth person under the virus restrictions. There’s no sign. I go in. My monthly pass is about to expire. I’m supposed to be able to recharge it with my phone, but the sensor in the phone doesn’t work. I hope to recharge the pass at a kiosk inside. It looks like the customer at the desk, with her back to me, is getting a pass for the first time. The worker is being careful taking her picture. She holds the webcam at a precise angle and gets an image. The customer goes behind the worker’s desk and looks at the picture. She doesn’t like it. One of the women waiting gets up and joins her. She’s her mother. She doesn’t like it either. The worker has an idea. “Pick up your chair and sit here, against the wall. The light is better, and your hair will look good against the beige.” She does. I can now see her face. She is strikingly beautiful, with perfect hair and precisely artful makeup. I understand why she’s particular about the photo. The other woman sitting by the door calls out suggestions. I ask if I can just go ahead and use the machine. I can’t. Its network connection is down. The worker types in some data, puts a card into a machine, and turns to me. “That will take a minute. Do you have your pass and a credit card?” I have them ready. I tell her that I want the same monthly pass that I’ve been getting. She puts my pass on a sensor, and types a lot of information into the credit card machine. She slaps my card down next to it. “And now we pray.” After a moment, something makes a disappointing sound: bee-doop. “I’m sorry. The credit card network is broken. We can try cash, or you can come back tomorrow.” I have to be near there in the morning anyway. I’ll try again then.