Methuselah, Before His Time
Albert Connaught had been standing in the queue, waiting patiently as time stretched elastically before him, for forty seven months before his name was called. The tannoy gave a brief crackle and then mispronounced his name for everyone to hear.
‟It’s pronounced Al-bear,” he muttered to the woman ahead of him as she watched him leave the queue and move off, shuffling, to the nearest help desk.
The woman behind the desk smiled dazzlingly at him for the barest millisecond before returning her gaze to her computer.
‟Albert Connaught?” she asked in that tiny moment of true contact between them.
‟It’s pronounced Al-bear.”
‟Oh. It says Albert here. How do you spell it?”
‟I spell it Albert, A-L-B-E-R-T. But it’s pronounced Al-bear.”
‟Hmmm… I have a note here on your file that says you need to go upstairs to Regional Dispensations.”
‟Upstairs? But I’ve been queueing here for ages!”
‟I’m sure it’s not that bad, Mr Connaught.”
‟Well, it feels like years. But it’s been at least half an hour. I have things to do.”
‟Regional Dispensations is upstairs and to the right. You’ll see the queue.”
‟There’s another queue?”
‟Yes. You’ll have to queue, I’m afraid. As you can see, we’re quite busy.”
‟Okay then…” Albert turned.
‟Excuse me, Mr Connaught?”
‟Yes?”
‟You’ll need to take this with you.” She handed him a sheaf of forms. ‟They can’t see you unless you fill this in.”
‟But that’s pages!”
‟Yes. Do you have a pen?”
‟No.”
‟Oh.
Albert dropped the forms on to the desk.
The lady held a pen up for him. ‟You can borrow mine. But you’ll have to fill in the forms here. I’ll need my pen back.”
‟Thank you.”
She returned to her computer and Albert began to read the first form. After a minute or two, she spoke into a microphone and the tannoy crackled and boomed.
‟Albert Connaught to Help Desk 19B, please, Albert Connaught, Help Desk 19b, thank you.”
‟It’s pronounced Al-bear.”
‟Excuse me?”
‟I’m Albert Connaught. I’m already here. It’s pronounced Al-bear.”
‟How do you spell that?”
‟A-L-B-E-R-T. But it’s pronounced Al-bear.”
‟Hmm. It says Albert here. Have you been referred to Regional Dispensations? This isn’t Regional Dispensations, this is a help desk.”
‟No, I know. I’m filling these forms in.”
‟Do you have a pen?”
‟Yes, thank you. I’m using yours.”
‟I don’t have a pen. I had one a minute ago, but it’s gone…”
‟Yes, I know, this is it. I have it.”
‟I’ll need it back when you’re done.”
‟Of course.” Albert held up the sheets of paper. ‟These appear to be the same two sheets over and over.”
‟Are they? You’ll need to fill them in before you go to Regional Dispensations. Upstairs and to the right. There’s -”
‟There’s a queue, yes, I know.”
‟There’s a queue. Take the forms with you. They can’t see you without the forms.”
Albert joined the queue on the stairs. Eventually, he reached the next floor. It took a lifetime. He walked to the right and waited in the queue to go to the right.
‟Excuse me.” Albert tapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. ‟Excuse me, is this the queue for Regional Dispensations?”
‟I don’t think so. I hope not. This is the queue for Executive Meandering. If it isn’t, I’ve just wasted twenty minutes. It feels like forever.”
Albert looked down at the forms in his hand, but they weren’t there. He must have left them behind. He still had the help desk lady’s pen.
Downstairs the tannoy crackled. ‟Albert Connaught to Help Desk 11C, please, Albert Connaught, Help Desk 11C, thank you.”
Albert ignored the announcement, just to see what would happen. The queue to the right trailed around the corner and joined the queue.
Rivka Jacobs
Lewis Carroll meets Franz Kafka, with a twist of Monty Python.
Very nice, very funny, and almost all too true in reality. I mean, I’ve been in lines that stretched around corners and joined other lines, and no one really knew where they were going.
The “queue for Executive Meandering…” — laughed out loud. The Department of Executive Meandering is presumably one floor above the Ministry of Funny Walks.
Good job!
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