Why do certain city services operate through departments that don't appear in the municipal directory, and what's behind those public works projects with no completion dates? Which civil servants have been employed since before electronic records began, and why do some utility tunnels require clearance that exceeds federal security levels? What's maintained in those municipal facilities that require specialized hazmat protocols?
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“He is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.”
― Franz Kafka
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I took another number from the dispenser. B-247. They were currently serving A-12. I had been here for what felt like days, though my watch insisted it had only been hours.
The Public Service Building was a labyrinth of identical corridors, numbered windows, and endless forms to be filled out in triplicate. I only needed to submit a simple permit application, but each window sent me to another, each clerk redirected me with a different colored form.
“Window 73 for initial processing,” they’d say. But Window 73 would be closed for lunch. Perpetually.
The waiting room was filled with others like me, their faces blank, shoulders slumped. Some had grown beards while waiting. Others had started families. I saw children born in the vinyl chairs, growing old enough to take their own numbers.
A-13 flashed on the digital display.
The man next to me hadn’t moved in hours. When I touched his shoulder, he crumbled into a pile of papers, each one stamped “PENDING” in fading red ink.
“B-247,” a monotone voice finally called. I approached Window 404, clutching my stack of forms. The clerk behind the glass had no face, just a rubber stamp where features should be.
“Form 62-B requires Form 89-C as supporting documentation,” it said, its voice emanating from nowhere. “Form 89-C was discontinued in 1973. Please fill out Form 89-C-X instead.”
“But where do I get Form 89-C-X?”
“Window 73.”
I turned to leave, but the waiting room had changed. The rows of chairs now stretched into infinity, occupied by skeletons still clutching their numbered tickets. The exit sign flickered and transformed into another “Window 73” placard.
Now I understand why my predecessor left this warning scrawled on a crumpled form: “The bureaucracy doesn’t process applications. It processes souls.”
I’ve started growing a beard. My number is B-247. They’re serving A-14 now. The lights continue to buzz. The forms multiply in my hands.
Please, if you find this note, don’t take a number. Don’t fill out the forms. Don’t look for Window 73.
But if you do, I’ll see you in the waiting room. We have all of eternity to wait.
