“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
“Groom’s name?”
“Jones, Yusef.”
“Yusef? You with him? Honey, you kids are in the wrong line.”
“We are?”
“Try that line over there, on the other side of the Pepsi machine. And good luck. You’re gonna need it, child. Next!”
“NEXT!”
“We want to apply for a marriage license.”
“For who, might I ask?”
“For us. For me and him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She told us to get in this line. I guess because—”
“I can’t give you a marriage license. He’s black.”
“I know, but I heard that if we get a special permit or something—”
“What you’re talking about is a same-race certificate. But I can’t give you one, and I wouldn’t if I could. The very idea of blacks marrying each other, when—”
“So why’d she tell us to get in this line?”
“This line is for same-race certificate applications.”
“So what do we have to do to get one of those?”
“Under the law, just ask for it. Even though there’s something disgusting about—”
“So look, lady, I’m asking.”
“Here. Fill this out and return it to window A21.”
“Does that mean we have to start in line all over again?”
“What do you think? Next!”
“NEXT!”
“Hello, I’m not even sure we’re in the right line. We want to get one of those special certificates. To get married.”
“A same-race certificate. You’re in the right line. But under the Equal Access Provisions of the Melanin Conservation Act, we can’t just hand those out. You have to have an Ozone Waiver to even apply for one.”
“I already have the application filled out. See? That white girl over there told me about it.”
“She told you wrong. What you filled out is the application for the waiver. But you can’t get the waiver without twelve and a half minutes of counseling.”
“Can’t you just stamp it or whatever? We’ve already been standing in three lines for hours, and my feet are—”