What Happened at the US Consulate

All night the snow decamped. It pitched
its tents on all the vacant roads. I put
out two old chairs, and they sat on
the sidewalk and the snow filled them.
The snow turned the chairs into pelmets
for snow trophies. This morning, in the
height of a snow that could cover
Napoleon's army, I took a streetcar
to the US Consul. A flat building that
they wish now was further from the street.
I opened the door for a woman pushing a
stroller up the handicapped access.
Okay, thank you. Then louder, from
behind the door, THANK YOU. A stern
voice, a security guard has the
door. He is telling me, if you do not
let go of the door, I will have to
break your arm quietly.
(To the lady with stroller): Do you
have a cellphone.
Lady: Yes.
You can't come in here with a cellphone.
God knows how many blocks she pushed
that baby. She wheeled around and pushed
back.
(To me): Is there coffee in that cup?
Me: Yes.
So, coffee and cellphones are not allowed
in the US Consul. If you happen, like me,
to be applying for a US tax exemption number.
I did not beep through the x-ray, but
he wanded me anyway. Show me, he said,
your belt buckle.
I put my hands to my waist.
Take your hands, he said, off the belt.
When I got home, the chairs were
still there. They looked like minor
sculptures from a poorly attended Quebec
City winter carnival.