So I Got Fingerprinted

One of the requirements of being a reading buddy at work is that I needed to get fingerprinted at the Emeryville police station. Actually, this is my third stint as a reading buddy, and I'd procrastinated on it for a very long time. As it turned out, most of the other unprinted buddies had had a lot of trouble setting up an appointment, but in the end our buddy leader ironed it out. So I felt a little less guilty for not doing earlier, since the others who needed to (and who had actually made an effort) hadn't been able to do it before now anyway. So I emailed the station and set up my appointment, which was at nine or nine-thirty the next morning.

I got there pretty promptly, especially for me (seriously - who wants to be late for a police appointment? Not me - us lapsed Catholics see cops mainly as stress and guilt generators). The front door was locked for some reason, but the receptionist told me to use the elevator and go to the second floor. The small, shabby upstairs lobby was pretty empty except for two other occupants and the office clerk, who was patiently explaining to his visitor that the police call that took place in his neighborhood wasn't in the station's jurisdiction, so it wouldn't have been answered by one of their patrol cars. Once it sunk in that the clerk couldn't help him, one of the visitors left and it was my turn. I explained why I was there, and the clerk called a co-worker and promptly sent me back downstairs.

I was let in, showed my ID, filled out a form, and waited as someone else finished up. I didn't recognize them, but there's well over eight hundred employees at work these days. I wasn't sure if they were volunteering their fingerprints, or if they, uh, had to get fingerprinted. While I was waiting, the station workers discussed the most recent epsiode of American Idol. A popular contestant had been voted off, and one or two other singers were staying on, in spite of their inferior ability. I'll bet you could replace the names, and use the same chat to describe almost any episode. Still, they were friendly and relaxed, so that helped me to maintain my equilibrium.

I suppose it makes sense that the old ink pad was nowhere to be seen, but I don't think I could've told you how people are fingerprinted these days. It's remarkably tidy, as it turns out. First, I cleaned off my fingers with an alcohol wipe. I must've had a small cut somewhere, as one of my fingers stung when it was swabbed.

Then my fingertips were pressed against a small glass plate on a larger device, as if I were about to Xerox my hands. Initially, my whorls didn't show up well, so I had to apply a gel they referred to as "cornhusker" (I'm assuming it had corn starch in it). I wiped off the excess and tried again, this time with much better results. One or two digits were uncooperative, but overall the fine grit really made the prints pop! And like that, I was done and on my way.

It made me think about what it must've been like in "the old days" to leave the station with inky hands after being arrested and fingerprinted. That's got to have messed with your head, especially if you were innocent. I'm sure this latest process was developed to collect the information in the best possible way, but was reducing the psychological impact of fingerprinting a motivation as well?

At any rate, it was a good experience for me. Suprisingly, I discovered on the drive to work that my fingers even smelled pleasant, with a faintly sweet talc scent. Did they have to add it, or does the gel simply smell that way?