“I’m sorry sir, but you failed to fill the forms in correctly. You’re going to have to do it again.”

“C’mon. You want me to redo that? It’s a bloody novel. I’ve been waiting here for hours.”

“I understand sir, but you failed to fill the forms in correctly. Please get in that line over there to request a new set of forms. You will have to pay the ‘incompatibility’ fee to request a redo.”

“Are you kidding me?! Do you not realize I have things to do?! I’ve done nothing but line up and change lines all morning. Can’t someone at least help me fill out these forms?”

“I’m sorry sir, but we’re very busy today. All you have to do is follow in the step-by-step instructions. The clerk at line A will show you how when you get there.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve already been there.”

He walks away in a huff, and follows suite by lining up with the others in line A. His bald head looks like it’s going to explode. He’s red in the face from chewing on the lack of humanity in these mindless drones. The line slithers even slower than the first time he was filed through it.

The room is musty. The fluorescent lights above hum and blink in typical fashion, only faintly illuminating. Below is a stale dark cement floor with colour coded arrows pointing in various directions. Everyone in queue is roughly at the same frustration level, but don’t express it. Some of them have been here before, others have not. It always seems to be the hardest for the first-timers. Floating throughout the room is the smell of body odour, bad breath, and stale farts combined.

Line A begins to grow, and our character makes his way to the front, but only after forty-five minutes. At the reception area he requests an ‘incompatibility’ form. The clerk monotonously shuffles through a filing cabinet behind her and hands the appropriate form to him with a dull pencil. He tries to find a seat in the seating area for line B, but they’re all occupied. This only adds to his frustration.

Surname: Wrentrew

Middle initial: W.

First name: Francis

Date of Birth: …

Already Francis is losing his mind. He feels like he is the butt end of a very elaborate joke. He looks around expecting to see the camera crew and idiotic television personality to jump out and tell him he’s on T.V. just in time for him to not erupt out of frustration. No camera crew pops out. No goofy asshole jams a microphone into his mouth. This is reality. The people around mind their own business, collectively. They don’t care about offering help to their fellow man. They don’t care about their fellow man, just like the workers in this God forsaken place. Francis looks around. This must be the waiting room for Hell, he says to himself. I must’ve died, maybe I didn’t make it, he convinces himself.

Question, question, question. One after another. They’re all so mindless. This whole place is mindless, and run by mindless robots. Someone needs to change this. Someone needs to speak up. Someone needs to fix this. Completely fed up, and near his breaking point, Francis walks to the front. He slams his forms down on the desk with authority, and attempts to break the pencil he was given, but fails.

“This is a joke! This is not how you treat people! I have a life to live! I can’t be cooped up in this dump filling out forms till the day I die. You either help me, or you can do it. I’m done. I refuse to sign another piece of paper. I refuse to do this anymore.”

“Sir, please calm down. Please step aside and let the others continue on. If you have any questions please file them with the clerk at desk 17.”

“NO! No, I won’t! I’m going home. My family is probably wondering what the hell is going on, and I’m here. I have a life!”

“Sir, please calm down. If you continue to be so unruly I’ll have to notify security. They can see everything that goes on in this office, and can be here within moments.”

“Let me talk to your supervisor!”

“I am the supervisor, sir. What can I help you with?”

“That’s it, I’m leaving! I’m done with this, and I’m done with you!”

Amongst all this commotion people fail to look in Francis’s general direction. They all look at the ground and mind their own business. Francis stands rigid at the front of the line, holding people up, but they’re so used to the procedures that it makes no difference to them. This is just a small blip on the radar of their current worries.

“Sir, you can’t leave without filling out the requested forms.”

Security stealthily makes its way behind Francis in the form of two bland burly men. The generic clerk continues to speak.

“Sir, if you don’t fill out the required forms then you will not be considered alive by the state of New York. It’s standard procedure that all newborns fill out these forms. It’s the verification of your life. Every other newborn that comes through here seems to manage to do so without so much as a peep, so can you please calm down and resume with what is asked of you?”