department of Qs

So it's a common fact that, worldwide (except maybe in Qatar), the department of transport office (or whatever it's named in your 'hood) generates the slowest cues known to man. They are deceptively short - you see a 'few' people sitting down and some brave souls standing along the perimeters, arms and ankles crossed, all staring up at the all-knowing interchanging number screen. Surely this time my number has to be called, they all think. But no, F156 wins the place (though that person at least got their number).

I decided to by-pass this and wait at Register 2, to the left of the door. My chances of being served were slim and I knew it was out-of-procedure, but I refused to be a minion of the all-knowing number screen. I would not conform so easy!

After several minutes that seem like hours, a lady asked me in a polite tone if I was being served. I just wanted to renew my license, so I said that. Wrong answer. To the ticket machine I go, to become another slave for the all-knowing screen. I should have pretended I was a chosen one.

Several thousand more hour-minutes went by while I lean against a bench next to a few other minions, all of us waiting and staring like brainwashed religious converts.

"Ticket number: A.1.4.9., please report to: counter 10."

The sweet, monotonous tone over the speakers, like some propaganda machine, aroused the hopeful attention of anyone listening. Never will you see a person move with such haste and readiness than you do at these places. Calling their name would fail to inspire the same instantaneous reaction. These people jump out of their chairs - or off the wall/bench - to where they're directed.

"Ticket number: A151, please report to: counter 6."
"Ticket number: B678, please report to: counter 2."
"Ticket number: F549., please report to: counter 10."

It skips numbers. The audacity; the conditions stated clearly! I was number A160. My ticket would be called at some interval between A151 and A164. It made no sense that A151 would go before A150, since the counters are capable of handling any service.

I waited.

"Ticket number: A158 please report to: counter 2."

The tone continued over and over. It was like a train station; a hellish, confined train station that took you nowhere. You weren't there out of choice, oh no, you're there because the law - the true power behind the all-knowing screen - makes you.

A160, my number - "my" - was called at last and I proceeded to counter 3, which was a whole one meter from my leaning spot. A man was behind the counter. A probably-gay man. He took my form and took my money on behalf of the law.

I moved on to the photo seat and hardly smiled into that ominous lens.

"Look right here," the operator said.
A flash.
I'm directed to wait. I ignored my previous position in favour of a cushioned seat next to the middle. My ears were pricked for any call with a phonetic resemblance to "Greg"

And there it was. My new license. I had survived the department for now, but I'd be back. One must always return, lest they no longer travel legally. The screen watched me leave, mocking me with its now-sequential number calling.

I just nodded and make a note that in all my ID photos, I have progressively more hair.

- P

I pushed into line and saved myself time
But I never knew what I was doing
Never knew where the line was going
If I had known it led back to the door
I don't think I'd have bothered entering at all