A Shared 'Domestic Partner' Moment at the Ronald Regan Building

A Shared 'Domestic Partner'  Moment at the Ronald Regan Building

The State of California has a particularly unfriendly office in seediest part of downtown LA in a place with the anti-government name of Ronald Regan Office Building where you go to register as domestic partners if that's something you want to do.  Lots of never-show-stain, thin carpeting stretched over miles of dingy hallway to make it clear that you shouldn't get too comfortable or expect too much in the way of personal attention here.

And on a dreary June-gloom day Barbara and I thought it would be a good idea to make our 'shacked-up' arrangement official and register with the State as 'domestic partners'.  The paperwork on-line looked simple enough, the notary work was cheap enough and we thought by being proactive in this way we'd dodge an unpleasant legal inevitability of her becoming my 'common law' wife.  A fairly ghastly, trailer park designation for a relationship that sounds like I beat her on week-ends and kick the dog the rest of the week.

Barbara and I had been to Palm Springs the week before and fell in with a very gay crowd at poolside who helped us tan without showing strap marks.  The alternative was to hang with married middle age couples that populated the pool deck but were much closer to retirement that we cared to admit to.  Most talked of things we had long since lost interest in - like 401k plans, investment properties or vacations - none of which our genteel poverty permitted .  But the boys in  the band were swingers who drank hard, had great Mary-Jane and knew how to party.  They educated us as to the highs and lows  of gay life and in particular the joys of having a domestic partner.

With on-line application complete, we marched into the Ronald Regan Building and approached this very thin young man, with a badly trimmed mustache,
behind a counter marked 'Secretary of State' and I asked, " Is this where we register as domestic partners?" 
His reply was short and sweet, 'Here's a form DP-1 - fill it out and return here when you're number's called.'
We took a hard plastic chair and said nothing after grabbing a number from one of those machines you might find at a deli counter.  We sure did look a lot different from those around us - no tats, no piercings, no purple hair - just a 'couple of plump middle-aged white folks who wore glasses and dressed in like aged hippies, which is in fact who we are.

When our  turn did come after a 40 minuet wait, Mr. Mustache looked over our application and handed it back to use quickly, "You don't qualify."  I got a little agitated and after a moment of silence asked,       " Why not?"   " Read the fourth bullets down, 'Both persons are members of the same sex, or one or both of the persons of opposite sex are over the age of 62 and meet the eligibility criteria under title II of the Social Security Act......"  Not missing a beat,  I looked up and Mr Mustache and made a point of removing my black rimmed glasses, looking him dead in the eye and said:
" I'm  going through the change as we speak, I didn't want to wait til I become Bernadette - do I really have to?  (whining just a bit)  Barbara was so looking forward to this, she wore her prettiest dress today.  You see, we've been at the doctor's office all morning and...."  Mr Mustache's nonchalant look quickly turned to terror  and his eyes grew wide as I proceeded,    " the shots have already began to enlarge certain parts of my body and caused me (in a shill tone) to lose my ......"
" OK, OK,  I understand, that's all I need to know.  Do you have the DP-1 notarized?" Mr Mustache quickly asked, anxious to change the subject.  " Give it here and pay $ 33 at window number 4. and your certificate will be mailed."    He mumbled under his breath,  real glad to yell out the next number behind us and see the last of Barbara and Bernadette.