Spelling Blue — By MAdisoN Harris

art by Lori Fuller

            He entered the room in a small rush of people. The glass doors of the Drivers License Division shut behind them and some of them tried to form a line, snaking back toward the bathroom, while a few headed straight to the gray counter with the black wire baskets filled with papers on it. He headed for the line. I was helping someone else, talking to them, directing them to the chair, telling them to smile for the picture. Nothing drew my attention to him except maybe he was taller than the others waiting. After the young woman I was helping stood to leave I asked who had the next appointment. A mother and son did. They stepped forward and I helped them as the tall man in the light plaid shirt waited patiently.

            It was his turn next; he stepped forward. He had a friendly face, rather thin. His whole body was thin in fact, like someone had taken the top of his head and the bottom of his feet and pulled. His grayish white hair was soft and thin looking, but fluffy enough that when he slicked it back it gave him a couple inches. His skin was shallow and white, but not sickly. Just normal. He was very normal. I saw plenty of those every day. The normal people. He said he had to renew his license. I told him to fill out the application and then bring it back to me. I pointed to the gray counter where they sat, piles and piles of them. He nodded and walked over, dutifully pulling one of the tall white papers out of the basket. 

            For the next thirty minutes people began to flood in. They must have heard we hadn’t been busy that day. Sound reverberated through the building, bouncing off the safety poster laden walls and cold tile floor. Many people came to my desk. I smiled, took their picture, handed them their number. Many hadn’t filled out their applications, they hardly ever do. People went to the table, pulled out the paper, and began writing. Usually they returned in five minutes, maybe ten. They came in, I smiled. They went to the desk, I smiled. They returned, I smiled. They gave me the application, I smiled. Again and again and again. People came and went, came and went. But he stayed there, reading that tall white paper, until all those who came after him had gone before him.

            Finally, he returned to me. The rush of people was over, he had outlasted them. He took a long time, I thought, but it was a passing thought. Sometimes people took a long time. Sometimes they were nervous, usually for no reason. That’s why I smiled, to ease their nerves. I wasn’t worried he took an extra twenty minutes. He handed me his paper. 

            “I forgot my social,” he blurted out. Quietly though. Nothing he did was alarming. He could blend in easily; he was hardly noticeable. 

            “That’ll be okay, probably,” I reassured. In reality, I didn’t know if it would be okay but for some reason, I wanted it to be.

            I took his application as I told him to sit down for his picture. I took his picture and then let my eyes wander over his paper, checking for mistakes. My eyes latched onto two empty lines.

            “Looks like you forgot to fill out your hair and eye color,” I said, pushing the paper across the counter, back towards him.

            “Actually,” he said hesitantly. I looked up and noticed his eyes for the first time. “Actually, I don’t know how to spell that well.”

            I paused, my hand still on his paper. For the first time, I realized the tall white paper, so full of words, barely required any writing. Mostly it was checking boxes or filling out numbers. Of the little writing required, most was the applicant’s name. I noticed the one other piece of writing that was not a name. The state of birth. Inscribed on the line was a horribly misspelled attempt at Oregon.

            “That’s okay, I can help you,” I said, my voice cheery but my smile fading. I looked at his paper, draped on the counter between us. Suddenly, unexplainably, it felt like I was seeing the form for the very first time. I handed him a pen and asked, “what is your hair color?”

            “Gray.”.

            I hesitated, trying to remember if our computers used the American or English spelling of gray. I winced as I realized it didn’t matter. He probably didn’t know there were two spellings.

            “G-R-A-Y,” I spelled out as I watched him print it. “And your eye color?” I asked.

            “Blue hazel,” he responded, his green eyes staring back at me. 

            “Well, you can only choose one. Which one would you like?”

            He thought a moment before responding, “blue.”

            “B-L-U-E,” I spelled again, slowing down for him to catch up. “All right looks like that’s it.             Let me get you your number, “I said quickly as he returned my pen. I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

            I printed out his number and instructed him to wait in a chair by the front. He went to join the throng of people, some sitting in the gray plastic chairs, others standing, all clutching their long white papers. As I watched him shuffle towards a seat, I couldn’t help but wonder. Wonder what his childhood was like. Wonder if he had finished school. Wonder how he had lived all his life in America without learning to spell blue. Wonder why I had gotten to be the one who could spell, and he got to be the one who couldn’t. Wonder how I could see so many people every day and never meet one exactly like him. Not until today. Not until I met him. Not until I spelled blue.

Madison Harris lives in northern Utah and is working on a master's degree in history. She has an English degree with a creative writing emphasis from Utah State University. She enjoys writing short form narrative nonfiction because of its capacity to help us see the extraordinary in the ordinary.