https://www.thenosleeppodcast.com/episodes/s22/22x19

The little boy. He makes fun of me as I walk to the park. Calls me names. He says I am old and retarded. He throws sticks and rocks. Tells his friends I am a pedophile. His mother is always looking at me. Her head poked out behind curtains. She sees her son harassing me. Looks indifferent. Her eyes tell me to stop standing in front of her lawn. But it is all I can do to stand there. To not run away. To not burn the house down. To not pick up the little boy. Throw him into the road. He is small and skinny. With ugly eyes. A haircut done in the dark. His voice is a bird’s chirp with a twisted larynx. I see him everyday. It does not matter what street I take to go to the park. He is there. On his bicycle. Playing basketball. Just standing. Waiting. Waiting to tell me how old and creepy I am. How I look funny. How disgusting it is. The cyst below my eye. How my wife is dead. Died because she hated me. I can talk back. Reprimand him. But he’ll only cackle. Or yell and say I am trying to rape him. He is only nine. Maybe ten. How does he already know these things? How does he know so well how to hurt people? To make them scared. At the park I feed my ducks and fume. The little boy is my nemesis. I spend the day thinking of him. How sour he makes me feel. I know he thinks of me too. Which way will I try to come home next? How best to hurt me. This is what my life has been reduced too. A rivalry with a child. And I am losing. I have knocked at the boy’s door. But no one answers. I have threatened to call the police. But the boy only laughs. And I will not call the police. Will not let them see me defeated like this. I have no one. No one who cares. My children think I’m stupid. They give me worse looks than the boy. They ask why I don’t just stop going to the park. Is that what they would do? Is this the kind of people I’ve raised? People who will just stop? No longer go to the park? The park is beautiful. There is a lake. And ducks and I feed them and they love me. They care. They care for my arrival. My bread. They listen. Listen as I tell them of the little boy who accosts me. They stay as long as I have bread. And then they move away. I do not blame them for this. They are busy ducks with busy duck days to have. I walk home and hope I will not see the boy. Or that he will not see me. It happens sometimes. The grace of God. 

One day the boy is sprawled out in the middle of the road. His bicycle astray. His arm is a purple zig zag. He is screaming. I picture the park. Sitting on my bench. Knowing the boy is lying there in the road. More pain than he has ever known. He deserves it. It might teach him something. But there is a voice inside me. Something below compassion. Something biological. I lift him up. I bring him to the sidewalk and pat his head. I call an ambulance. He cries into my shirt. I tell him it will be ok. I hope the arm is infected. They will have to amputate. The ambulance arrives quickly. I consider pushing him in front of it. The paramedics take him. Ask his name and I say it. I do not ride along to the hospital. I do not wonder if he will be ok. I go to the park. The ducks are gone. I came too late. There is a knock at my door days later. The boy stands with his father. A cast on his arm. People have already signed it. Did you push my son off his bicycle?

Invite him in. Offer a drink. Refused. I don’t want to have to get the police involved. Neither do I. The boy sits on my sofa. His face is empty. I tell the father the same story. Again and again. He is still confused. Look, I understand if maybe my son was biking too close to you and you pushed him away. That’s not what happened. Then what happened? So I tell him again. The father does not seem to listen. His desires change. Maybe we should talk to the sheriff about this, he’s an old friend of mine. My living room begins to feel distant. Like it isn’t my living room. The boy has yet to speak. A call from his mother. There is a dent in a woman’s Subaru on the block where the boy fell. The woman says she saw him from the window. The phone call ends. There is no apology. No look towards the boy. No acknowledgement of his lies. Of their accusations. Only syllables glued together. Ah, I see we’ve had a misunderstanding. Indeed. Show them out. Do not cry. Watch them drive away. Take a steak knife from the kitchen. Feel its point against my finger. Do people know they hurt each other? They must be ignorant of it. Must be. Must be. 

Or is it a choice? Something deliberate. Something to concentrate on. Like climbing up a tree in the night. Not knowing who is older.  The tree or I. Opening a window from the outside. Silently. Stepping into a child’s bedroom. Seeing it. The toys. Every color in the darkness. The clothes. A wardrobe overfilled. The night light. Orange then red then orange then red. The bed. Shaped like a race car. The sleeping boy. On his side. Killing him. Pressing the knife into his skull like the plunk of a piano note. Like a string through clay. Does he shiver as it enters? Or is it only my imagination? I climb back down the tree. It is easier than expected. Walk through night air. Think about whether or not this means I have won. See the police station. Show them the blood on my clothes. Tell them what I did and how. 

There are no ducks in prison. That is all I am sorry about.

Dearest Maxillary Central Incisor, 

Hello, I hope all is well. I appreciate you taking time away from your busy schedule to read this email. First let me say, I love your work. My fellow molars usually say front teeth have it easy, as they're always being brushed. But what they don’t realize is that the whiteness of one’s top front teeth is usually the indicator for someone’s overall dental hygiene. So really, it’s you incisors and cuspids who keep our mouth’s reputation so esteemed. For that, I will always be grateful. 

To be completely honest, I am not sure it is you whom I should be writing to about this subject. I consider you to be a tooth of high importance, certainly more important than a molar like myself. If this is not an issue you know how to solve, perhaps you may know someone who can address it. It would mean a lot to me if you could pass this note onto them. 

The thing is, my neighbor (and my best friend), Mandibular Third Molar, has become a cavity. Back teeth like us are brushed a lot less, and really, it’s a matter of our own individual strength and endurance for whether or not cavities arise. Mandibular Third Molar has always been such a hard fighter, and it pains me so to see him suffering in this way. 

We all know that time of year is approaching, that time when blue-gloved fingers poke, prod, and mark us. Those fingers will find him, and they will bring the drill. They will take my friend away. 

You will think me a baby tooth when I say this, but still, I must. I know it is against protocol. I know it will possibly endanger my own health, let alone the health of the entire mouth. I know it is foolish, selfish, and unbecoming of my true purpose as a crushing and grinding tooth to feel this way. But somehow, knowing these things doesn’t make the feeling go away. And so, I beg:

Please don’t let this happen. Please don’t take my friend away. He’s still got some time left. Some days the plaque looks better than others. Maybe God will get a new girlfriend, and start brushing His teeth more thoroughly again. Mandibular Third Molar could rebound, I know he could. Please, just give him a chance. 

I just can’t see myself living without him. He’s always been there beside me, and it just won’t feel the same working beside a filling. With a friend like Mandibular Third Molar, this life actually felt like it had meaning. Like the world outside our jaws was something beautiful, and that in here, we added to that beauty in a small but special way. I have always thought this. But, after seeing my best friend slowly wither away, I have started to feel some doubts. Maybe there is nothing really out there. Maybe God is just punishing us, consuming corrosive materials and not cleaning or taking care of us on purpose, in the hopes that we die a slow rotting death. To that I would prefer even the drill. Wouldn’t you?

Aren’t we, with everything we do, helping God? Why then, does He not help us?

Again, perhaps these are questions you cannot answer, requests you cannot grant. If this is so, forgive me for wasting your time. I just thought it was worth trying.

Signed Sincerely, 

Mandibular Second Molar.

“Is your real name Morgan?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I mean, is your full name Morgan?”

“Yeah.”

His chapped lips purse, and he takes a step closer. 

“You’re lying.” An accusation stated in fact, like the answer to arithmetic. Swallow, notice how little spit is in your mouth. 

“It’s Morgonian.”

“Morgonian?”

“Yeah.” Say it, air pushing through your teeth. “My dad is really into video games. Morgonian is his favorite character.”

“Dralux Sword, right?” 

Change your voice, your face, to something lighter, happier. 

“You know Dralux Sword?”

“A little. I’ve only been able to find the third and fourth ones on emulators. But everyone on r/Dralux says the second is the best.”

Laugh. Show a little more of your psyche than anticipated.

“Please, the second game is normie bullshit, people only like it because it’s easier. The bosses have less health but the sprite work can’t compare to the original.” Regret. Yet, see him smile, him laugh. He is closer to you now. Smell the cigarettes on him. Know they are not his, but his father’s.

“Damn.” 

See him nod, him smile. Make as much eye contact as you can manage without beginning to feel nauseous. 

“I have the NES cartridges for all six Dralux Sword’s at my house. Or my dad does.” Breathe. Say it. “You could… you could come over and play it sometime.”

“You have a classic NES?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s tight.”

Hear the bell ring. Gym class is over. Time to slink out from behind the bleachers. Head off to your next class.

“Lemme give you my number.”

Let him. Feel his hand grip your wrist as a sharpie scrawls ten digits on your forearm. His palms are calloused and cold. Watch him hold onto you a little longer, even after he is done writing. Don’t throw up. 

“Call me,” he says.

Call him.

…

This is your first time back at school in years. You attended Shellsburrow Elementary. You were a good kid. You played video games with your dad after school. You got stickers on your homework sheets. You liked to play hard during recess. Football, freeze tag, basketball, catch the flag, handball, blob tag. Remember how the sweat felt in your hair. Remember the buzzing in your legs as you waited for the lunch bell. Remember how on a Tuesday in March, you threw up all over the field in front of everybody. A recess aid ushered you to the nurses office. You threw up two more times. Your mom came to pick you up. You ruined the backseat of her Subaru. You took a bath, and went to bed hoping you’d feel better in the morning. You wouldn't.

Remember how the doctors puzzled over you. It wasn’t the flu, or a stomach bug, or any type of virus. It seemed to be a compulsive, stimuli based reaction. What that stimulus was, was unclear. Intense physical action caused you to vomit. Bright lights, loud music, movies that weren’t animated, mashed potatoes, the sounds of glass breaking, the smell of hay. All of it led to a sensation in your thighs. A creep up your spine. A warm and dry swallow followed by BLEHHCHHH. 

You were taken out of school. Raised in your living room, with the lights dimmed, and the air conditioner on. Everyday was experimentation. What would make you vomit. What wouldn’t. You wore a mouth guard at all times, to stop the stomach acid from wearing down your teeth. You developed a strict diet of foods that would not hurt you. You got older. You learned how to live with the body you’d been given. The episodes became less frequent. You’d vomit once a day, after a couple years, once a week. It had been months since the last time it had happened. Your parents thought you were ready to go back to school. To high school. You thought you were ready too. What good do thoughts do?

There are those and there are that. How wonderful it would be to be a those. Those boys over there. Those girls with the red hair. To be in a group. But you are a that. That kid who threw up twice on the first day of freshman year. All alone. Even as months passed and you adjusted to the sounds and smells of high school, you would always be a that. They saw you in disgust. In fear. And you kept to yourself. Seated in the back of classrooms. Hood on. During gym class you’d be excused from participating. You’d sit on the bleachers and watch the clouds fart past up above. You’d hear lurking beneath you. 

See him hiding under the bleachers, waiting for another gym class to be over. He has skinny pale arms and a thin mustache. His face looks twelve years olds, but his eyes, his hands, are ancient. Go down there. Ask his name. Tell him yours. Invite him back to your house. Call him.

…

Sit in the same bean bag chair as him. Your hips, thighs, and shoulders touch. Watch his fingers clumsily move over the controller. See his sprite die and reanimate. Hear the click as he turns the TV off in frustration. Feel his breath against your cheek as he turns to face you. 

“I need a break.”

Laugh. Sigh. Sit in awkward silence. Ask. Ask him what you’ve been wondering about.

“How did you know my full name isn’t Morgan?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like I know things about you.”

Feel your calves suddenly tense up. A warning sign. Follow the instructions Dr. Cho prescribed. Breathe in through your nose for four counts. Out for two. Try not to think about throwing up. 

“What’s my favorite color?” you ask.

See him pause, him think. Keep breathing.

“Green?”

“Yeah.”

Smile, breathe, breathe and smile. 

“What’s my favorite food?”

“Huh… pizza?”

“No, it’s pasta.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What?”

“Do you know things about me?”

Do you? You knew about the cigarettes. But was that just a guess?

“I don’t know.”

“What’s my favorite movie?”

Think. What kind of movies do boys like? Pulp fiction. Wolf Of Wall Street. But the answer seems deeper than a guess. Something as simple as the inclination to put a triangle shaped peg in a triangle shaped hole. Access a half of your being you didn’t know was present. Not a link between yourself and others, but a link between yourself and him.

“Mulan?”

See him pause. His nose is an inch from yours.

“Yeah.” There is wonder in his voice. Surprise, maybe even a little fear. His lips are on yours. It is a breath-filled, sudden, passionate smooch. Vomit. Vomit directly into his mouth. That is how it feels. But he does not pull away. And you have not thrown up. This is what love feels like: surging through your entire bod, emptying you of all you have ever had. Kiss and kiss and kiss him, as no gross disaster unfurls, no embarrassing teenage tragedy. You become just another one of those people who had their first kiss in their parent’s basement. Those.

Come up for air. Place your forehead against his. Smile. Ask him more questions about yourself. He gets some wrong, some right. Hear him ask you questions about himself. With each one you answer correctly, he holds you closer. You know him. It is like he has always been there. Like a limb or a memory. And you want to hold him as such, protect him as such, love him as such. It is a force so powerful and so close to sickness that you feel sickened—it is all too ferocious at once. It is why, when you see him wave the next day at school, you will not wave back. Why you will stop talking to him all together. Although he calls you, do not call him. 

…

It has been years. Years since the last time you threw up. Years since you graduated high school. Got married. Had a child. Got divorced. Your daughter is at college now. Feel accomplished. Like you started a road, and walked it till the end. See the horizon at the end of this street. Hate this feeling. Feel sickened by it. 

Remember what sickness feels like. A pebble in the gears that offsets duality that ties a sinking stone to mind and body. Sickness holds you under, just beneath the surface, flailing. When you’re sick, you cannot remember what is to be healthy, just as when you’re healthy, it is impossible to grasp sickness. 

Remember sickness. Sprinkled across your life, missing frames from a long strip of film. Every afternoon of your childhood spent in your basement. Playing video games from before you were born, sat next to a garbage can, just in case. The jingling of backpacks, the creeping fluorescents, and the tap dance of linoleum tiles, that had beckoned an episode in the middle of the hallway on your first day of high school. And the strange but similar sickness that you felt after your first kiss. The feeling of him beside you, like two pieces of a puzzle. 

Life is plain now. You are stuck in a house that is all and only yours. Feel healthy, and cringe at how strange that is. Invite a little excitement, a little sickness into your square of the universe. Type in the only phone number you ever bothered to memorize. Call him.

There will be a house on the end of a long road with two humans and one dog. The dog will love it there. All those windows, every toy, every speck of forgotten food, each square of grass in the yard will be explored, sniffed, and claimed as one’s own. And when the long day would find itself at the close, there will be a human bed and a dog bed to sleep on. The dog bed, placed beside the dying fireplace with enough crackling embers to warm the whole house, will rest the tired pup. The dog will love it there. 

And will wake to love. The love of humans, the love of a new bowl of food, and the blessed opening of the back door, unwrapping the present that is the world. There will be a weeping willow tree at the center of the yard, surrounded by Kentucky blue kelly green grass. At the perimeter of the yard there will be a tall anachronism of a fence, spotted with blemishes and holes to peer through into the neighbor’s yard. Holes to see the neighbor's dog. This dog will be named Rufus, a name heard each morning through the fence. Rufus, get the fuck back in here, damnit. Come on you stupid piece of shit, move. With his slow and injured gate, Rufus will move back towards the neighbor’s house, each step a schlep, a bother, a pain.

The dog will be called away from the holes in the fence, called away from Rufus, back to the house, back to the warmth, back to the home. Once the dog is back inside, the human will feed her, and take her for a walk. The human will sit beside the dog as he reads his books. Sometimes the human will read aloud. The dog will love to listen. The human will make sure the dog feels loved, feels safe, feels happy. In exchange for this love, the dog will provide her very presence, some intrinsic gift that is ineffable yet ever-present. 

…

There will also be a squirrel that lives inside the willow tree. The dog will bark at the squirrel. The squirrel will not bark back. The dog will chase the squirrel. The squirrel will run away. The dog will watch the squirrel. Watch through the window as the squirrel prances about the yard collecting its nuts. The dog will want to kill the squirrel, and will not know why she wants this. The squirrel will know this. Will know that if caught, it will die. But the squirrel will enjoy the chase. Will enjoy antagonizing the dog. Seeing how close it can get to the house before the dog will begin to bark. How far down the tree the squirrel can creep while the dog is outside. Just as Eve’s tree had apples, the dog’s tree will have the squirrel. 

…

The dog will wonder about her temptation. Wonder whether or not it really makes sense to chase the squirrel. The desire will seem innate, but will this mean it is justified? Just because it is an instinct, doesn’t mean it is what she ought to be doing. The dog will wonder what she ought to do. Will wonder, what is anyone ought to do? The humans, it will seem to the dog, do whatever makes them smile. Food makes them smile. TV makes them smile. What makes me smile? the dog will wonder. Chasing the squirrel. And so, the dog will chase the squirrel. 

…

Our story will begin with one day. It will be like any other day…

…

One day, the sky will be blue and there will be clouds, just enough clouds for all the shade and storms the earth deserves. In some places people will smile, and in other places people will frown. In our place, the house at the end of the long road, the dog will go outside, see the squirrel, and give chase. Darting about the yard, the dog will follow the squirrel as it runs around the rose bushes. Leaping from the earth, the squirrel will latch onto the trunk of the willow tree, climbing just higher than the dog can jump. The dog will watch as the squirrel climbs further up the tree and onto the top of the fence, headed for the neighbors yard. 

In an instant, the dog will utilize a capacity she did not know she had. Something more than the day to day thoughts of food, water, stick and ball. Something even further than the dog’s introspective wonderings on the economy of her actions. The ability, not to think, but to believe. Believe that as she will leap into the air, some invisible force will carry her over the fence and into the neighbor’s yard. The dog will have no evidence to support this idea. And yet, she will do it anyway. 

…

The dog will make contact with the fence, crashing through it, landing amidst a family of magnolia bushes. The squirrel, having leaped from the top of the fence back down to the grass, will look back towards the dog in the wreckage with astonishment. So taken aback, the squirrel will be unable to move. The dog will roll over onto her paws, and charge the squirrel again. Still unmoving, the squirrel will wait. Wait until the last possible moment to leap out of the way. 

The dog will question the squirrel’s bravery; will wonder whether it has ever heard of Icarus.

…

The last possible moment will come. The squirrel will leap to the right, and the dog’s jaw will follow, snagging its tail with her teeth. With a flick of her neck, the dog will bring the squirrel's body crashing towards the earth with a sound like the crunching of a twig. The squirrel will fidget, trying to regain its footing as the dog lets go of the tail and bites for the head. Dark red goop will spurt from its neck. The squirrel’s paws will flex for an instant before folding with the weight of gravity. The squirrel will die. And Rufus will watch. 

Watch as the dog shakes the squirrel’s limp corpse in her jaws. Will plod over from his spot on the porch to the dog’s side. Her ruin will cease; she will let the squirrel drop to the dirt. The dog’s eyes will be wild, filled with the chaos of achievement. That ecstasy which always transforms into the ever foreboding question: What do I do now? Rufus will see this question in the dog’s eyes and will answer it with a single bark. 

And the dog will look towards him. Will know exactly what he means. That from this death, only more death would have to come. What do I do now? It will be simple. The dog must find another squirrel. Must chase it, must catch it, must kill it. Then, there will be another squirrel. And another. The dog will lead a life spent chasing, catching, and killing. Woof!

…

The dog will not bark back.

…

The dog will look away from Rufus. Will look back towards the squirrel’s torn limbs with no remaining sense of achievement. No sense of reward. Nor will the dog feel loss or remorse. The dog will simply feel nothing at all. 

…

Rufus will watch as the dog saunters back towards the fence, jumping back through the hole she created. Rufus will hear the door open behind him, will shudder with trepidation. Rufus! A voice will say. What the fuck did you do to my fence?!

…

Back inside the house, the dog will plop down onto the kitchen floor, letting her chin rest against the tiles. What was it Dostoevsky said? the dog will ask herself. Ah yes. “Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.”

…

Days will pass. The humans will open the back door, but the dog will not run outside. The humans will fill the dog’s bowl, but the dog will not eat. Will only lay curled up beside the window like a snail. Eventually, the dog will relent, will return to her old ways. Will eat, will bark, will wag her tail. But there will be a sliver of her soul that is missing. The dog will survive this loss. Will not seem any different than before. But there will be a little less light in this world. So it goes.

The bell rang and a middle aged man stepped up to the booth, red hat in his hands, a thick blue flannel on his back. He stared at the woman as she adjusted all the papers on her desk, waiting for her eyes to meet his. 

“Hello,” the woman said, affording the man only the razor’s edge of a glance. “Hi. I’m Zachary Ellis.” The woman moved in her chair to finger through a cabinet at the side of her desk. “What can we do for you today?” “I’d like to mow my lawn. It’s starting to look rather long. Haven’t cut in almost a month… Please,” Zachary added. He had learned this affect from his wife. He wasn’t sure whether it actually helped his chances, but the person behind the desk usually seemed to smile or nod whenever manners were used. “What sector do you live in?” the woman asked, seemingly unaffected by Zachary’s courtesy. “47-9A.” At this the woman opened several folders and tracked her fingers along pages riddled with indiscernible text. After a brief silence, the woman closed the folder abruptly and looked up into Zachary’s eyes. “Your request has been approved.” He smiled, always having been a man who was seminally thrilled by the little victories of adult life. “You have 48 hours to complete your request. You may apply again as early as three weeks from today.” “Ok. Thank you,” he added with a smile. The woman did not reciprocate. Instead she slid two pieces of paper beneath the glass with a ballpoint pen on top. “Sign here, and here.”

The man with the blue shirt put his cap back on and left as the bell rang once again. A young couple approached the booth, a girl in a yellow dress, a guy in jeans and a white sweater. “Hi there,” the girl said excitedly. “Hello,” the young man repeated, squeezing the girl’s hand in his own. “Hello,” the woman in the booth answered. “We’d like to have a baby,” the woman in the dress said, her face cracking open into a sunny-side-up smile. “What are your names?” the woman in the booth asked. “Jack Becket,” the boy said. The girl followed, saying “Kate Becket,” emphasizing the surname, as she had done in her head for months before the wedding, and aloud ever since. “What sector do you live in?” “12-4G.” “How old are both of you.” “I’m 29, he’s 28.” “Do you have any other kids?” “No. First one,” Kate said, smiling at the woman in the booth like someone told her to say cheese. The woman didn’t seem to notice. She was running her finger down a series of lists, making little ticks with her tongue along the way. “What are your occupations?” “I’m a dentist… or training to be. My wife’s a painter.” “How much money do you have in your bank account?” “What?” Kate asked. “How much money do you have in your bank account?” the woman repeated, each syllable sharper than the last. “Um…” Jack started leaning closer to the glass, speaking awkwardly. “Together we uh have 53 thousand dollars… about.” A small red light on the desk behind the glass lit up, and the woman’s eyes snapped to see it blink as Jack’s did the same. Slowly and shamefully, Jack looked up at the woman’s brow. “Did I say… 50, I musta sorry… 43. 43,000.” The red light stopped blinking and the woman looked back down at her papers. There was a long silence, and Kate’s hand squeezed Jack’s. “Do you have any kids?” Kate asked the woman. She did not answer. Minutes passed, nothing was said. Jack’s eyes passed over the atrium, from the large windows which let in strong beams of sun, to a sign above the front door that all passed as they entered the Application Center. The sign read: “Our mission? The Perfect Utilitarian Society.” In the booth next to them, Jack watched as an old man applied to get a haircut. Finally, the woman at their booth looked up from the desk. “Your request has been denied.” “What?” Kate said, her voice weak. “We apologize for the inconvenience. You may apply again as early as a year from today.” “A year?” Jack repeated. “Please,” Kate started, approaching the woman, reaching out her hands, although she knew better than to touch the glass. “That’s such a long time…” There were tears in her eyes. Jack stood behind her, speechless. “Is there any way…” The breath left her lungs and she stepped backwards, pushing her weight into Jack’s shoulder. “We apologize for the inconvenience Mr. and Mrs. Becket. Please move aside for the next person on the line.” Kate began to speak, but her voice was broken by a sob. Jack caressed the side of her head, and walked her gently away from the booth, his eyes glazed over in disbelief. 

The old woman behind the young couple was standing in front of the booth before the bell could be rung. Her white hair was wrapped in a red cloth and a green cardigan was draped over her frame. There was a strong aroma of chamomile around her, and her eyes never seemed to stay in one place for long. She rested her hands on the small outlet of the desk and leaned in close, each word hurling spittle and steam onto the glass. “I’d like to get my medicine please. My name is Catherine Pierce. I live in sector 64-2U. I take Exelon and Zyprexa.” She took short, frustrated breaths as the woman behind the booth opened several cabinets, and scanned over pages filled with prescriptions. “When did you reup on your last dose?” Catherine grimaced at the question she had been expecting. She seemed to hyperventilate as she spoke, her arms flailing with the rhythm of her words. “It should not matter when I last got my medicine. I need it to survive. I should not have to ask you-” Catherine’s wagging pointer finger grazed the glass of the booth and a shock of energy rushed up her finger and down every nerve in her body. In one second each centimeter of her skin lit up with the force of the sun, and in the next moment, the pain was gone, and Catherine wondered if she had imagined it. But she hadn’t, she did indeed touch the glass, and had fallen to the floor, on her bad knee of course. She looked back at the line behind her and watched them stare down at her, their faces blank. She had touched the glass: what had she expected to happen? Catherine struggled on the linoleum floor for several moments. Her breath was even more strained now, her hair ratty and unkempt from the electricity of the shock. The woman in the booth’s face was unyielding. “When did you re-up your last dose.” “Two weeks ago,” Catherine managed, holding her shaking chest as she stood. “Why-” “Because my grandson knocked some of my pills onto the floor, and he threw them away because he didn’t want to make a mess. That is why I am re-upping so soon. So please, please give me my medicine.” The woman behind the booth looked up from her papers. “Your request has been denied. We apologize for the inconvenience. You may apply again as early as a week from today.” “I just want my medicine.” Catherine’s voice had reached its height now, each word stressed and bent like a sculpture of barbed wire. “I am a person. You do not have to check any papers, I should not have to ask you for my medicine.” Her words became tears, and she dabbed a trickle of snot with her wrist. “I need my medicine,” Catherine croaked. “These medications are not life saving.” The woman in the booth explained. “Due to exceeding demand for your particular prescriptions, your request is at this time denied. We apologize for-” “Fuck you,” Catherine whispered. She turned away from the booth, looking out over the hundreds of other booths and velvet ropes filled with people waiting in line. 

As the old woman hobbled away, the bell rang and the man with a thick beard and sunglasses stepped forward. He had a large black backpack over one shoulder, and tattoos of ravens up and down his arms. “Hi,” The man said, his voice low and gruff, attempting sweetness. “Hello.” “I…” The man chuckled. “I don’t know how exactly to dress this…” “Please explain your request clearly and precisely,” the woman behind the booth stated. “I…” the man started, leaning closer to the glass, lowering his voice. “I’d like to… take… take my neighbor's daughter. Temporarily.” “What is your name?” “Chuck Dawson. Sector 33-2B.” “What is your neighbor's name?” The woman asked, opening a large red binder filled with pages and pages of names. “Donald Higgins.” “Have you ever committed a crime before?” “Nope.” The red light blinked. “Ok you caught me,” Chuck said, flashing a crooked toothed smile. The woman’s face remained unchanged. “DUI. 20 years back. Nothing since.” The red light switched off, and the woman closed the large binder, and looked up into Chuck’s eyes. “Do you intend to kill your neighbor’s daughter?” “No ma’am.” Chuck answered. “Do you intend to seriously injure her?” “Not seriously, no. Just… teach her a lesson. Teach her how to behave.” The woman behind the desk opened a cabinet to her right and retrieved a stack of papers filed under K. “Your request has been approved. You have 96 hours to complete your request. You may apply again as early as 10 years from today.” The woman slid a piece of paper beneath the glass with a ballpoint pen rested atop. “Sign here and here.” “Thank you kindly.” 

The red-neck-looking dude with the backpack stepped aside, a wide grin set beneath far off, dreaming eyes. The bell rang, and the young man in the green sweater stepped forward. “How’s it going Rhonda?” he asked with a smile. He did not know this woman’s name, nor the names of any of the tellers, but he always liked to make one up. Sometimes they’d smile, or give him the textbook response: “Sodexo Employees do not have names”, however this woman seemed not to notice. “What can we do for you today?” “I’d like to kill myself, please.” “What is your name?” “Adam Boyles.” “What sector do you live in?” “2-2C” “What is your occupation?” “I’m a lawyer.” The red light switched on, and Adam let out a quiet laugh. “Just kidding. I’m unemployed.” The red light went away. “How do you intend to kill yourself?” the woman asked. Adam pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through pages of crossed out items until he reached the first on the long list of possibilities yet to be crossed out. “I am going to feed myself to a crocodile.” The woman took no interest in this, merely flipped over a couple of papers, rearranging them on her desk like a game of solitaire. “Your request has been denied. We apologize for the inconvenience. You may apply again as early as one day from today.” “Aw shucks, what a surprise,” Adam said with a smile. “Guess I’ll try alligators tomorrow,” he added, crossing out a line in his notebook. Adam looked back at the woman in the booth and gave her a small wave goodbye. “It was good to see you Rhonda. Have a good rest of the day.” “You as well.” The woman behind the booth said. Adam’s eyebrows raised slightly as he drummed his fingers on the side of his hip. “Huh. That’s new,” he said to himself. Adam gave the woman one final smile before turning away to leave. 

The bell rang. The next person on line stepped forward.