After having some trouble finding an ATM that wasn’t broken (what is UP with today?), I had everything I needed, and went to the DMV closest to me, armed with a book, to fill out my paperwork and wait for my photo (and money) to be taken.
I went to the desk, slid my certification, birth certificate, and license across the counter, and said, “I’m here to apply for my carry permit.”
Two police officers were standing to my right, leaning against the counter, and one said, “You shoot a .45?”
“Haha…no, a 9mm.”
“Nice. What brand?”
He turned to the other cop, “The gal has a NICE gun.”
I laughed, “I like how it shoots, and the price was right.”
“It a compact?”
“Nope – 4-inch standard service.”
The girl at the counter interjected, “That’s what my babydaddy shoot. He got a .45.”
I almost choked when I heard her say “babydaddy”, because, really, that almost sounds like a bad joke at this point, but I’m in no place to judge.
Besides, she still had my birth certificate and driver’s license.
The conversation slowly moved away from me, I was given my number (B218), my paperwork to fill out, and instructions to wait until my number was called. I know this game. I was glad I’d brought a book – it took 45 minutes for B216 to be called, so I knew I was in for the long haul.
I hunkered down with my paperwork and began to fill it out. Address? Okay, got it. Hmmm…”If you have lived at more than one address in the past 5 years, please list your other addresses in the space provided to the left.” Okay. No problem.
I lived at my dad’s for 4 years, so I put that down. One left, since I only have one year left to cover.
I begin to fill out the address I had in Missouri. I remember the apartment number, the zip code, the city, and I can even tell you every street within a 2-mile radius, but I could not for the life of me remember my building number. Fuck.
I texted my sister surreptitiously (phones weren’t supposed to be used in the building) to ask her if she remembered the building number. No answer. Shit.
I remembered that there was a “5″. and a “0″. and a “7″. And that there were 4 digits. But in what order? And what was the fourth digit?
I scribbled in “7150″, because it sounded right. If I’d know that I was supposed to account for my address history for that long, I would have done my research. As it is, I’m lucky I remember how to get home from school half the time.
I got there and received my number at 1:48pm. 2 hours later (I nearly finished my book), my number was called, I paid my $115, received my fingerprinting instructions, and went to wait for my photo to be made.
By this time, the idea that my address was wrong was kind of fading. Why would “7150″ be wrong if it sounded right to me? I kept repeating the full address to myself mentally, because the “rhythm” of it was right. I decided not to worry about it.
I stopped by Wendy’s on the way home to get a Baconator. Stay away from them, by the way. They’re pretty gross.
I got home, ate, sat around for a few minutes, and then decided to check to see how close my instincts were on the address. I pulled out my old Cingular contract from 2002 and scanned it for the address.
7750. I was ONE number off.
I’m hoping they look at the fact that I have no criminal record and no history of mental illness (not officially, anyway) and assume I just forgot to put that upper line on the second “7″.
Anyway, I’m going to the range on Tuesday night with an old friend who’s coming into town, and I’m going to fill out the paperwork online so that I can get my fingerprints done there that night. Then it’s the waiting game. I asked the lady who took my money how long the average wait time was right now, and she said between 1.5 and 2 months. That’s pretty good, for Tennessee. She felt compelled to remind me that they have up to 90 days to issue either a permit or a reason why you’re not getting one, though. So I have that long to worry about whether they’re going to accuse me of fraudulently filling out my application.