The Notary Public

His base of operations is in a dingy, crammed and dusty hardware store with a peeling sign outside. It looks like it's been there for hundreds of years, and, stepping over the threshold and adjusting to the lack of light inside, I am surprised to find that they actually DO sell elecric light bulbs. The gentleman behind the counter, sliver-haired and bespectacled, informs me that the Notary Public will be back in ten minutes. When he finally steps into the store, ashtray-thick glasses hiding a pair of squinty eyes over a droopy, thin moustache, he looks me over and says, "You again! Didn't I just see you? What do you want NOW?" Well, the last time I actually was in to see the Notary Public was pretty much a year ago, but I let that one pass, and instead inform him that it's that time of the year again. "Well, I guess you still don't make any money, right? Here, let me see." And he grabs my paperwork in need of certification, fishes in the ample folds of his cardigan for the Notary stamp and proceeds with his work, my income papers resting on his voluminous belly. "How can you even live on that?" he opines. I mumble something to the effect of "I manage..." thinking "really none of your business". Sign sign, stamp stamp. "That's four bucks. You can pay at the counter." And with a turn he vanishes deep in the bowels of the store. "Good bye" I mumble and drop off my cash with the silver-haired spectacles.