“The company charges fifty dollars for a certified duplicate record,” he said.

“I have to type up a formal verification sheet.”

I took out my wallet and laid one of my fifty-dollar bills flat on the counter.

“Please type it,” I said.

He pulled a preprinted form from his desk drawer and fed it into an old manual typewriter on the counter.

His heavy fingers pressed the keys slowly, typing out my name, the license plate, the arrival minute, and the departure minute, line by line.

When he was done, he took a heavy iron hand stamp, pressed it into a purple ink pad, and stamped the bottom corner with the garage seal.