It appears money orders can be obtained at Duane Reades. For those unfamiliar, Duane Reade belong to that curious species of store that evolved to replace pharmacies after pharmacies were threatened by a new genus of supermarkets that had acquired pharmacy-like characteristics. Duane Reade belongs to the same family of stores that includes Boots (UK), London Drugs (Canada), CVS (US). The typical Duane Reade is a hybrid between the pharmacy and the convenience store (and apparently now the bank), selling anything from snacks and food staples, to cough syrup and allergy medication. Oddly enough, the managers of this particular Duane Reade saw fit to provide their money order services from their photo processing booth - perhaps there is a symbiotic relationship between the two?
Armed with my money order, I trudged back to New York City police headquarters. I was so close and I would not be defeated! I would see this fingerprinting process through today. I filed past the gate, made my way through the obstacles of the metal detector and X-ray machines, and arrived triumphantly at the fingerprinting office. The lady accepted my money and forms without protest, pausing only to make one derisory comment, when lending me a pen, that no right-thinking person would ever attempt any business without bringing a writing implement.
Finally, I was seated, waiting for my name to be called. The time passed slowly. Around me, I heard the continuous buzz of conversation in many tongues - Spanish, Russian, Italian, etc... The Russian lady ended her cell phone conversation saying she would call back her interlocutor - I did not understand the rest. I wondered why Italians always seem to wear Dolce & Gabbana. The lady at the front desk asked a Hispanic man if he was here for his immigration card - I'm not sure what he responded. Nobody seemed content though. Somebody called out a name! Not mine... a Chinese name - but oddly no Chinese lady. An Indian man came in without a money order and was sent to the post office. A name!... Italian.... Somebody said he lived in France. The other two italians pushed past the desk to be fingerprinted. The lady at the front desk began conversing warmly in Spanish with a confused man.... AND FINALLY!!! My name.
I walked quickly past the front desk and was bluntly commanded to leave my things on a chair and wait for further instruction. It appears that none of the employees of the New York City Police possess the word "please" in their vocabulary. The fingerprinter returned and as I tried to figure out how to place my finger on the ink pad, she roughly grabbed my hand and placed it on the touch screen of a computer. Where was the moist ink? the rough paper? the ink-dyed fingers? This procedure was sanitary, clean, mechanical and efficient. One by one, the fingerprinter rolled, each of my fingers for me on the screen, as the computer scanned my fingertips. And within less than 3 minutes, it was done. I was ordered back out of the back office and a short while later, the fingerprinter thrust my fingerprint cards in my hands. It was done.
Armed with my money order, I trudged back to New York City police headquarters. I was so close and I would not be defeated! I would see this fingerprinting process through today. I filed past the gate, made my way through the obstacles of the metal detector and X-ray machines, and arrived triumphantly at the fingerprinting office. The lady accepted my money and forms without protest, pausing only to make one derisory comment, when lending me a pen, that no right-thinking person would ever attempt any business without bringing a writing implement.
Finally, I was seated, waiting for my name to be called. The time passed slowly. Around me, I heard the continuous buzz of conversation in many tongues - Spanish, Russian, Italian, etc... The Russian lady ended her cell phone conversation saying she would call back her interlocutor - I did not understand the rest. I wondered why Italians always seem to wear Dolce & Gabbana. The lady at the front desk asked a Hispanic man if he was here for his immigration card - I'm not sure what he responded. Nobody seemed content though. Somebody called out a name! Not mine... a Chinese name - but oddly no Chinese lady. An Indian man came in without a money order and was sent to the post office. A name!... Italian.... Somebody said he lived in France. The other two italians pushed past the desk to be fingerprinted. The lady at the front desk began conversing warmly in Spanish with a confused man.... AND FINALLY!!! My name.
I walked quickly past the front desk and was bluntly commanded to leave my things on a chair and wait for further instruction. It appears that none of the employees of the New York City Police possess the word "please" in their vocabulary. The fingerprinter returned and as I tried to figure out how to place my finger on the ink pad, she roughly grabbed my hand and placed it on the touch screen of a computer. Where was the moist ink? the rough paper? the ink-dyed fingers? This procedure was sanitary, clean, mechanical and efficient. One by one, the fingerprinter rolled, each of my fingers for me on the screen, as the computer scanned my fingertips. And within less than 3 minutes, it was done. I was ordered back out of the back office and a short while later, the fingerprinter thrust my fingerprint cards in my hands. It was done.
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