120 Minutes in Hell
My back’s to
the wall. I can hear the faint crackle of simmering human flesh, and smell the
putrid odor. There’s a little boy – maybe four years old – climbing on the
folding chairs in front of me. Crunching. Forever crunching on some pieces of
hard candy he picked up off the dirty floor. Every once in a while his face
gets red and he looks at me and coughs. And every time he does that, I think
he’s about to choke to death and my eyes scan the crowd in a panic for anybody
that looks like he might belong to them. At last count there were 52 people in
here, but, since then, they’ve come in three at a time while only a few have
made it out. A tiny sign atop the filing cabinet says “Number now being served
– 80”. My number is 91. My mother was right. I should have lead a better life.
She said I’d have to pay for my sins someday. That day is here. Dante was a
whining pansy. I’m in hell. I’m in the Revenue Office.
All the people coming in here have exactly
the same look on their faces. Horror. They look at me (I’m the first one inside
the door) and say, “Busy place, ain’t it?” Every one of them. Like it’s script
and these people are all trying out for the same part. “Busy place, ain’t it?”
I nod, and continue writing on the back of my Personal Property Assessment
envelope, because I don’t want to miss a minute of this. This is among the
greatest of life’s lessons. Like death itself.
This is how Big Brother controls us here.
You people in other states probably don’t know about this. We HAVE to drive
here. That’s the only way to get around. No public transportation to speak of.
No city busses. No trains. To us, Subway is a sandwich shop. Dig? In order to
drive, we have to have licenses – in our pockets and on our cars (or pickups). In order to get those,
we have to come here. To Hell. They give us a list of things to bring:
Inspection sticker; proof of insurance; proof of Personal Property Assessment;
proof that we paid last year’s Personal Property Tax; shoe size; Blood and
urine samples; a list of our last 10 sexual partners; our first born children.
Then, during the long hours waiting in
the lines here, they subliminally plant messages into our brains to check that
little box on our tax returns to donate to the Presidential Election Fund. And
God knows what else.
The old guy in the white cap just walked
away from the “Express Lane” (that is a hysterical term) that he’d been
standing in for 15 minutes or so. “Next time I get stopped” he says loudly,
“We’re gonna to court. Me and you both gonna be down there, I’m afraid!”
The lady behind the counter – obviously
hardened from years of being forced to inflict this most hideous of human
torture – just ignores him and looks up and gives that sinister grin to the
next poor soul in line. The old man is sitting down now, up there in the front
row, throwing a hissy fit to some absolute stranger next to him.
The ladies over at the County Assessor’s
desks have only a few people waiting in their lines. They don’t even have to
take a number. One of them has been on the phone for the past ten minutes,
using hand motions to describe her new drapes, while the waiting customer’s
foot taps spastically on the floor. I notice that my foot is doing the same
thing.
What has become of my life? How did I come
to be in such a horrible place? Why is this kid wiping his sticky hands all
over my pants leg? All I ever wanted was to get my tags transferred over to my
new van. But no! First you gotta go to the insurance office and get some stupid
little card. And then you gotta take it to the Assessor. And then she asks you
if you assessed your stuff for this year, and you don’t know because your wife
takes care of all that stuff. And then she asks you if you paid your last
year’s taxes, and you don’t know because your wife takes care
of all that stuff, too. So she gets on the phone to the Courthouse and asks
somebody that has access to a computer and ends up talking to them for the next
ten minutes telling them about her stupid new drapes! Then she fills you out a
new assessment sheet and you sign it and think you’re done. But no. She tells
you to go take a number and sit in Hell and wait. And wait. And wait.
The little boy with the candy and sticky
hands just walked past me on his way out (Thank God) and took the opportunity
to take a swipe at my pen – causing a long scribble across the envelope. The
lady behind the counter calls out number 84. The guy in the white hat just lit
up a cigarette, and he’s sitting there, daring somebody to tell him that he’s
not allowed to smoke in here.
“Well, just tell me WHAT I gotta have!”
demands another voice from the Express Lane. In a few seconds the guy storms
past me and out the door. Right behind him runs another man, carrying the
papers the guy left laying on the counter. “Sir!”
I’m remembering the guy in the tower at the
University of Texas back in the 60’s. I’m wondering if the state of Texas used this
same system of vehicle license renewal.
The old man in the white cap is leaning
over the counter now, butting in line. The clerk is raising her voice to him.
She’s explaining that they don’t have enough people to do whatever it is he
wants to do. He sits back down and wakes the guy behind him up so he can bitch
about it to somebody new.
Oh, boy! A lady just walked in here with
another little kid. My neck’s getting sore from nodding. “Yes. It IS a busy
place. What the hell did you expect you moron? This is the Revenue Office, you
blithering idiot! Have you never been here before? Why would you be so
socially irresponsible as to bring a child into an environment such as this?
Nobody should have to face this until they’re at least 18!”
I came in here at 11am. It’s 12:45. They
just called number 87. I really do need to go next door to the laundry and use
that nasty restroom, but it’s a cinch that, if I did, somebody would steal my
chair and I’d have to sit up there with the rest of the zombies. One thing about
this place – there are no politics here. Everybody is treated the same…like
cattle. Lined up on the chairs in front of me are young people, old people,
businessmen, chicken farmers, church ladies, truck drivers, and one dude that I
think is a TV weatherman.
Everybody has to wait. And wait.
And wait. People are developing lasting relationships with folks they just met
in here. Agreeing to stay in touch. Loaning each other money. Giving birth.
Raising their children. Dying.
The thought just occurred to me that I’ll
have to hand that woman these envelopes I’m writing this on, if I do live long
enough to complete my quest here. I hope she doesn’t take the time to read this
story. With her obvious lightning clerical speed, I might have to go build a
house or something while
I’m waiting.
Wow! There’s a woman that’s been sitting
over at the far end of the room since before I got here. She just realized that
she was supposed to take a number, and didn’t. She’s turning a little green. I
think she’s going to blow breakfast.
What a terrible thing to happen! She’s
looking around the room now to see if anybody has noticed. You know, like when
you’re a kid and you have some really dumb wreck on your bicycle? Or when
you’re walking into a store or something, checking out some
babes, and turn and slam your face into a post? Or the time I was laughing at a
couple of my friends who had been involved in a wreck, while driving by it, and
rear-ended a third car I hadn’t seen? Only this had to be much worse. This lady
has wasted all this time here. By the way she’s dressed, I’m guessing she was a
much younger person when she came in.
What?
91? Are you sure?
But, this poor woman. Should I give her my
number? She’s old. I don’t think she could possibly live long enough to start
at the end of the line now. The little take-a-number thing is all the way back
around to number 27.
She’s calling it again. 91. 91. 91.
She’s looking frustrated! Going for 92!!
Tuff break, grandma. I’m outta here!
