R519

I was sitting there fidgeting with the paper slip in my hand, the number R519 printed on it. An open book was sitting on my lap, but I hadn't read a word. I glanced around at the room full of others watching the red, digital numbers flash onto the small marquee hanging from the ceiling.

"R519," blinked twice on the screen.

I stood up out of my chair and checked the piece of paper again to compare the number. I spotted the woman waiting for me behind her desk on the far side of the room and hurried over, pulling papers out the folder in my hand as I went.

"Good morning," we said to each other.

The woman took the papers from my hand and spread them out on the desk in front of her. She looked at them, then leaned in to get a closer look at one of the sheets before lifting it off her desk.

"Your Spanish residency card has expired," she said, lifting her eyes off the page to look at me.

"There's nothing I can do for you now." She shuffled the papers together and set them in front of me on the desk. "You'll have to start over from the beginning." She reached for the button at the edge of her desk to call the next number.

"I can explain," I said quickly, scooting to the front of my chair.

The woman smiled politely and looked down at her watch.

"Look," I said, "I would have been here months ago, but I've been waiting for one of the certificates I needed. I waited five months for that certificate because every time I asked about it, the secretary told me it was in the mail. It wasn't until two weeks ago that I got the phone number for the woman who makes the certificates and found out my file hadn't been processed because I was missing some paperwork."

I threw up my hands. "No one notified me," I said.

The woman sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"What am I supposed to do?" she asked.

She waited for me to answer her question.

"I don't make the final decision," she continued. "I just collect paperwork."

I bit my lip. "All I know is that because some woman in an office half way across the city wasn't willing to give me correct information, you're telling me I no longer have permission to live in this country."

I shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't believe I was saying these words--and that they were true.

"I've been living in Spain for five years," I said. "My life is here."

I leaned back in my chair and ran my hands through my hair. My mind was racing.

"Alright," the woman said, holding up her hand. "Relax." She lifted the pile of papers off the desk in front of me and set them in her lap.

"Here's what we'll do. I'll process your paperwork. Come back tomorrow with a letter explaining your situation, and we'll put it in with your file. I still don't think you'll get the renewal, but we'll give it a shot."

She grimaced and shrugged her shoulders.

"Thank you," I said quietly.

"Good luck," the woman said as she reached across her desk and pressed the button to call the next number.