Milton Shackelford, C.N.P.

I remember it as if it were yesterday except that today will be yesterday tomorrow and let's face it; that was then and this is now.

I had hit the skids and had skid marks on my undies. Night after night I would drown my sorrows in cheap bottles of hooch and the comforting, hairy arms of a venereal hooker. "Ladies Of The Evening," some call 'em, but to be frank, she may have been a guy. Anyway, I'll never know for sure.

Life ain't easy when you ain't got the dough, or the yeast for that matter. If you haven't got either at least don't forget the butter. You can't make Hollandaise sauce without butter. But sometimes you gotta find out about life the hard way. A dame who was the waitress in my favorite diner would always say "Where's the beef?" Me, I always say "Where's the butter?" But that's just me. To each his or her own I guess. That gal was crazy in my opinion. Ahhh, who am I kiddin'? Live and let live, I guess.

My name? OK. Milton Shackelford. Oh yeah, and I'm a C.N.P. That stands for "Certified Notary Public." What do I do? Verify signatures, administer oaths, stamp things with an official seal I have, that sort of thing. It's dangerous work sometimes. Lots of intrigue. The ladies love it. I wear a suit, sometimes even a tie. I get to travel. Once I went to Paris. And to the Bronx County Courthouse to put my stamp on some writs. I guess I should mention that I went to Paris when I was in the service, before I became a C.N.P. Maybe that doesn't count, but I've been there. I'm going to Jersey Tuesday, but I don't have to bring my stamp with me because I'm only going to a Bar Mitzvah. I ain't certified there anyway so if they had something for me to stamp, like if the kid gets a diploma or something and the Rabbi has to sign it, I wouldn't be able to. God Damn Jersey; they always have to make everything hard. Ahhh, who needs 'em. I can stamp in Connecticut with my New York certification and anyways it's nicer there. Damn Jersey. Anyway I'm Catholic and maybe they need a Jewish Notary. Damn Jersey. Ain't nothin' but trouble.

My office? It's a booth in the lounge at "Nunzio's Bowl And Blow" out on the Grand Concourse. No overhead, see? Nunzio's an OK fella; he never tried to kill me or nothin'. I just gotta take his sister out once a month and we're aces. Ain't too bad if you can get over her moustache. She's got 'em all over the place. Halitosis too, but I overlook it. The rent is free and Nunzio knows people and like I says, there ain't no overhead. Unless you count all the hot dogs I eat; I gotta pay for those. But I bowl for free so that's good. And anyway it's only once a month that I gotta take his sister out so I ain't complainin'. Except she is really hairy and has stinky breath but like I says it's only once a month. Maybe if I talk to Nunzio he'll let me take her out once every TWO months. That would be great. But only if it don't upset the applecart. I don't want Nunzio killin' me or nothin', which he ain't never tried, but he might if I upset the status quo. You know, the applecart.

Remember I told ya in the beginning that I "remember it as if it were yesterday?" What I meant was when I first found out about training to be a C.N.P. It was a slow news day and I remember seeing the ad on the front page of my morning newspaper:

Yeah, I'll never forget. When I saw that ad I figured my ship had finally come in. I had done all sorts of jobs and been bad at every single one.

Cab driver. Second day out I crashed the cab into the side of a building that some kids had painted a mural of the Lincoln Tunnel on. Tried to drive through it. Damn kids. Saved me from havin' to go to Jersey though. Passenger died unfortunately. Almost got the chair for that but they let me go. It was all a frame up. Damn kids.

Sherpa. Saw the ad for that on a score sheet at "Nunzio's Bowl And Blow." Didn't realize you had to go to Tibet. They drugged me, those bastards! I ain't no mountain guide, that's for sure. Can't even find the Lincoln Tunnel. Almost got the chair for that. Well, at least Tibet is better than Jersey. Damn kids. Damn Sherpas.

Night watchman in an old church down on Allerton Avenue. I was so gassed all the time I was there that I can't even remember the name of it. Saint somebody or other I think. Saint Hoopla? No that's not it. Is there a Saint Hoopla? I wonder if there's a patron saint for notaries. Maybe that's who Saint Hoopla is. There sure are a lot of saints and anyways I was drunk.

My main duty at the church was to sit in the Sacristy and guard Father O'Hallorhan's cassock. One night a guy climbed in through the window while I was on duty, told me he was Jesus, and said he had to borrow it. I was so loaded that I let him do it. Turned out to be Freddie the Wino. I almost got the chair for that and I lost the job. Damn kids. Damn Sherpas. Damn church.

So what the hell did I have to lose? I called. I got trained. I took the test. It had about a hundred questions, some normal and some loaded with all sorts of foreign, Latin type words. I'll never forget the first question. It was one of those "yes/no" things. "Do you have a pulse?" They told us in notary class that would probably be the first question and we should answer yes unless we didn't think we had one but that might work against us becoming notaries.

The second question was a bit tougher. It was something like:

"In the adjudication of a writ of eviction executed at the place of said execution of evictor writ pursuant to Deloros Ipsum of Ipsum Facto, if the attorneys are present with the high sheriff in an adjudication of defecant pursuant to the law henceforth adjudicated does said witness of oath need to witness said signature of adjudicator?"

I just said yes. I didn't really know. Fifty-fifty chance, right? Don't know if I got it right, but I passed the test. In notary class they told us to guess most of the time, so that's what I did. You might think that being a big time Certified Notary Public is just witnessing a signature and stamping a document. Maybe you're right. But I don't think you are, 'cause that test was a bitch, so I think I'm a pretty important fella. I don't mean to swear but sometimes us C.N.P.'s don't get no respect.

So that's my story. I got my license. I date Nunzio's sister once a month, smelly though she may be and I get my free rent. Freddie the Wino? He went to the chair for killing a Sherpa. I saw it, up at Sing Sing. Had to stamp the death warrant with the witnesses signatures once it was all over. Warden signed it. Did you know he's a lefty? Father O'Hallorhan walked the last mile with Freddie and Freddie didn't even flinch. First time I ever saw him sober. Freddie that is. Father may have been loaded; I don't know and anyway that ain't my business. Just witness the signatures, that's all. Father even forgave us for the "cassock incident," as he likes to call it. Right before they threw the switch on Freddie I asked Father if there's a Saint Hoopla but he just glared at me. Wasn't in the mood I guess. Oh well, doesn't matter much now that Freddie's dead. I'll tell ya, that death house smells a lot worse than Nunzio's sister's breath, maybe even worse than Jersey.

The state only let's me charge two bucks for each action I perform as a C.N.P. That ain't half bad considering the fact that sometimes I just sort of stand around and look official. But hey, I'm so well known now that I make at least fifty bucks a week. Times are good. Everyone in the Bronx comes to see me when they need a notary. Even the hookers.

Damn hookers.