“DON’T FORGET to take them in for the new I.D. photos before you drop them off in class. They’re doing it in the old classroom next to the gift shop. Catty-corner to the security office. The check is with the application. Got it?”
To say my wife was speaking to me as one might to a child would be inaccurate, since I’ve often been present when she’s spoken to children, and at those times her mien is always affectionate; that element was now clearly missing. However, to fill the vacuum left by erstwhile sweetness, she chose to slow down and raise her volume. So, all in all, I think it fair to say she was speaking to me as one might address what, in my salad days, we used to call a dimwit.
And it might have ended there, with me bowing like Paladin’s cooley, packing off the little ones, and heading downstairs (or, for the hills), had I not turned and offered, “New I.D. photos? What new I.D. photos?” She briefly considered bouncing the iron skillet off my noggin and instead, with admirable restraint, said, “It’s a new company the school recommends. The brochure is in the packet.” When I responded with a vacant look, my specialite de la maison, she barked out the slogan for a popular running shoe company, and I lammed out with my heirs in hot pursuit.
But on the ride to school I couldn’t shake the thought: “What new I.D. photos?” The kids were clamoring to hear an Aaron Carter album (We have all of them; you can imagine the looks I get at the counter of the record store), and, for the first time, I popped one in cheerfully, since I now had something else to chew on during the mawkish tunes than, well, strangling Aaron Carter. “I didn’t even know they had old I.D. photos,” thought I. And I.D. photos for what? The monkey bars?
We got into the classroom designated for the operation, and it was jammed, and we wrote our names on the list and sat down to wait, but all that was okay, because now I had a chance to read “the brochure in the packet.” I unfolded the item and blanched at the headline in frightening, angled type: “750,000 Children Are Missing Each Year. That’s 2,100 Each Day. That’s One Missing Child Every Forty Seconds.” And then the clincher, which could have shot off the page more powerfully only if they had Uncle Sam next to it pointing at you: “WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF THIS WAS YOUR CHILD?!”
First of all, I did the math. 750,000 a year? Twenty-one hundred a day is 766,550 a year, and one every forty seconds is 788,400 a year. Well, then, which is it? (By the by, if we ever get a slogan here at The Weekly Standard, I’m recommending, “We do the math, so that you don’t have to!” Like it? Wait. How about, “Pound-for-pound, we have less hair than National Review, but Fred Barnes is pretty good-looking.” Oh, forget it.) But, see, they’ve given us a discrepancy of 38,400 children there. Isn’t that significant? Aren’t we worried about them? Who are they, bratty kids we don’t like? Bin Laden’s siblings? Both? Okay, okay, never mind the inexactness. Let’s just say some kids vanish every year, and it’s more than a thousand, and less than a million.
Underneath these “facts” was a color photo of five smiling kids, whose ethnic breakdown would have qualified them for a Bennetton ad: two blacks, one Asian, one blond, and one redhead, all standing next to a fence post, which was there, no doubt, to represent dumb kids. There were no Hispanics, which was odd because every line of the headline had, underneath it (no kidding), the same words in Spanish: “QUE’ HARIA USTED SI ESO ERA SU NINO?!” (Actually, I don’t speak Spanish, so, come to think of it, that could be Esperanto, but I don’t know how prolific European peaceniks of the 1920’s were in their breeding.)
Underneath that was a cartoon of a powerfully built, blond, blue-eyed chipmunk in khaki pants and a muscle shirt, who would probably be far more effective as a recruiting tool for the Aryan Nation if they ever move into elementary schools, or France. In this case, his T-shirt said “CHIP” on it, which apparently stands for The Child I.D. Program (El Programa de Child I.D.). “Chip” had a flowing American flag in his fist and was pointing to what these I.D.’s will apparently have on them: a photograph (fotografia), fingerprints (huellas), height (altura), weight (peso), and address (direcion). Anyway, how about I leave off with the Spanish? I think you get the point. (Como si paro con mi Espagnol? Yo pienso que huste entiendo mi punto.) Hey, wait a minute, now I can’t stop. (Un momento, ahora yo no puedo parrar.) This is crazy! (Hesto es loco!) I’m going to turn off the computer and try again later. (Voy a pagar la computadora y tratar al rato.)
Whew, that’s better. Yeah, all I needed was a bite and a nap. That was weird, though. Anyway, all this begs the question: Why am I getting these goofy laminated cards in the first place? What function do they serve? I stood and strolled over to buttonhole the two grifters running this sting, a man and woman in their thirties. Both wore purple sweatshirts with “Chip” on them and had the unmistakable sneer of professional carnies, but nevermind that now. “Who’s getting these?” I asked.
“Concerned parents.”
“Concerned about what?”
“Their children.”
Not a bad maneuver, that. Aren’t you concerned about your children, pal? “I mean, what do these I.D.’s do?”
The woman passed a subtle signal to the man and took over. She approached and got close enough for me to smell her perfume and notice that she was quite fetching. I’m sure this tactic works for her when she encounters stupid men. It certainly did in my case. “750,000 children are stolen a year,” she said solemnly.
“Yeah, I read your brochure in the packet. I’m not sure I believe that, but even if there are, what do your I.D. cards do? Protect them from being kidnapped? Are you saying that if I don’t get these cards, the chances will dramatically increase they’ll be drugged by a circus clown and wake up serving finger food at Cardinal Law’s next Superbowl party?”
This didn’t budge her an inch. “Parents are often confused when giving information to the police. Our cards keep important data handy.”
“Like my address? If you can’t remember your address, you arguably don’t deserve to get your kids back.” Again, not a flinch. I was impressed and pressed on.
“My wife asked me–told me, heh-heh–to get your Package C for fourteen dollars, which includes four I.D. cards, two backpack I.D. cards–are those different from the regular I.D. cards?”
“Yes, those are for their backpacks.”
“Can I put one of the regular I.D. cards in their backpacks?”
“We don’t recommend it.”
“Okay. You’re the pros. I also notice that Package C includes two refrigerator-magnet I.D. cards. Is this in case they’re kidnapped by the stove? Plus, I just realized we only have one refrigerator. What do I do with the second magnet I.D.? Although, come to think of it, our unit has a freezer compartment on the bottom. Maybe it can go down there, in case ‘Mini-Me’ ever scoops them up. On the other hand, Grandma has a refrigerator at her place. But it smells. Her place, not the refrigerator. Oh, it’s all so confusing.”
It was about then she realized her perfume gambit hadn’t worked as fully as she expected, and she decided (wisely, I feel) to cut bait and run. “Excuse me, sir, but I have to get back to our digital camera. In fact, I think your kids are next. Unless you’ve changed your mind and don’t want the cards. Either way, you’ll have to make up your mind. We have five other schools we’re going to today.”
And Schmeling is down.
Of course I got Package C, but not just because I couldn’t imagine telling Mrs. M. I didn’t. Believe me, I’m as hard core about security as the biggest lunatic among you out there. To a point. I wish there were a way to always know where every bad guy was, but if that includes a future-shock world where we all have “Soylent Green” computer chips implanted under our nails that tell the government how many drinks we’re having, I will inveigh against it with a polite, “Get stuffed, comrade.”
So, in a few weeks (Allow several weeks for delivery) I guess we and an army of other parents will have eight plastic-coated pictures of each of our kids that remind us how much they weigh. That year. Also pretty slick, eh? Because unless you stop feeding them, it looks like you’ll have to get Package C again next year. Et cetera.
Hmm, a few hundred kids at fourteen bucks a pop, times six schools a day. Not too shabby. At least I assume everyone paid fourteen bucks, because the other, cheaper options were grossly inadequate to the American parent’s paranoia needs. Package B only included one refrigerator magnet, and Package A didn’t have any at all. No sense laminating your kids if you can’t hang them on the fridge as well, I always say. (Es ist wahnsinning, seine kinder zu beschichtigen, wenn man nicht die kinden auf dem kuhlschrank hangen kann, ich sage dab immer.) Oh, no, it’s happening again. (Es tut mir leid, es passiert wieder.) Wait a minute, though, this is German. (Bitte, warte einen moment, ich rede auf Deutch.) Ah, well, it’ll go away. (Na und, es wird passieren.) And, after all, it could be worse. (Das ist doch nicht so schlimm.) It could be Arabic or French. (Ich konnte Arabisch oder Franzosich reden.) French! Mon Dieu!
Larry Miller is a contributing humorist to The Daily Standard and a writer, actor, and comedian living in Los Angeles.
