Bright sunlight reflecting off the glass front of his local DMV partly blinded Howard as he shuffled toward its entrance past cars across an over-crowded parking lot. Howard pressed a faded blue button causing the ill-fitted door to scrape across its threshold under the power of an automatic opener.
Entering the vestibule airlock, it took him a moment to
adjust to the artificial fluorescent lights and the stale musty smell only
encountered in such institutional places built decades ago. Howard's feet
scuffed the threadbare brown and fibrous carpet, likely original to the
structure, as he pushed his body against the interior door forcing it to yield
against him and grant access to the lobby.
The low white sound of a hundred idling people greeted him.
Rows of little-better-than-folding chairs filled the room, themselves filled
with all manner of fidgeting human bodies. Howard snagged his "take
one" tag—Number 83—and found himself an empty chair between an elderly
woman and the wall.
"Number 7… Number 7…" called the lady at the
counter. Howard looked down to compulsively check his number as if it had
changed, but the palm sized square continued to show the stately
"83".
He flashed the card at the lady next to him and chuckled,
"only 76 to go."
"Mmmm-hmm," her only reaction as Howard turned
back to looking at his shoes.
"Number
22… Number 22…"
Howard had been sitting and waiting in the stuffy, humming
room for 15 numbers. He was abandoned by the old lady at number 15, left
isolated in the wilderness of his plastic-chair row with a poster of a 20 something
declaring the benefits of "Real ID" as his only companion.
"You'll never leave me." Howard spoke quietly to
the poster, periodically checking his number tag bouncing against his compulsively
idling knee. "You look like a Charlotte or maybe a Maybell." He
grinned at his shoes, then glanced back to the poster. Howard went suddenly
still and his smile froze into a confused expression as Maybell gave him a
knowing wink. Looking around the room, down his row, behind and in front, no
one paid the least bit of attention.
Howard looked back to his shoes, no smile this time. “Oh, are we not friends anymore?” A woman’s voice asked. Howard made a point not to talk to his new friend and continued to inspect his footwear.
“Number
35… Number 35…”
Maybell spoke in a mocking tone, “Number 35…" then
exasperated, "How many more to go? You’ve been here forever!”
“Shut up…” Howard mumbled under his breath with his back
turned toward the wall and the unexplainable Maybell. The vocal picture was
becoming more and more unhinged as the numbers passed, all the while drawing no
attention from the mass of humanity surrounding her, no one but Howard’s.
Howard rocked back and forth in his seat, impatient to have
his number called. “Not too many more now.”
He looked down at his card again; still “83”.
Maybell chimed in, “48 more! You’ll die in this place! And
what a hell of a place to die!”
Howard tried his best to ignore her, looking away and gripping the number in his tightening fist.
“Number
62… Number 62…”
Maybell screamed. She had been screaming for the past 12
numbers, hardly pausing to breathe.
Howard was hunched over with arms folded across his body,
rocking to endure this unendurable incessant endlessness.
"Number 63… Number 63…"
Maybell unleashed a continuous unbroken wail.
Unending.
"Shut up!" Howard shouted, jumping to his feet.
Silence filled the room. No more idle distracted sounds. The poster hung
motionless in front of him. As Howard turned around, he could feel the eyes
pressing into him.
"Sir? Excuse me," the number lady said, "Are
you 63?"
"No, no I'm…" and Howard looked down to read his
card. “63” stared back. Puzzled, "I mean, yes. Sorry."
Howard shuffled past his row mates toward the counter and
the smiling number lady. The expressionless eyes of the patrons remained fixed
on him. They did not return to their distracted waiting, but watched and
watched.
"Yes, thanks, I need to renew my license," Howard
said, glancing over his shoulder. Still watched.
"Yesss I can asssissst you with that. But firssst I'll
need the number back," she said and reached out her hand towards him.
"Oh, of course." Howard replied. As he went to
pass the number across the desk, he realized his hand was empty. Looking at his
palm, the card was gone but in its place, a blocky "63" was stamped
onto his flesh.
"Well, go on." The lady smiled, arm still
outstretched.
"I can't. I mean, look," he said, reaching out to
show her his hand. As he did, her hand closed vice-like around his wrist,
pulling him over the desk. "Ouch!" he protested.
"Oh don't frett, sssir. I'll have that off for
you."
"No! Stop! Help, Someone!" Howard fought and
struggled, powerless against the iron grip. None came to his aid, but he could
see them watching silently as he felt her nails penetrate his palm to rend the
number away.
"NO!" Howard screamed, letting out an anguished
wail. The wail was taken up somewhere in
the room, then picked up by more and more patrons, returning it to Howard until
everything was his own pained voice ripping from the mouths of the otherwise
expressionless mass. Over it all he heard the cackling laughter of Maybell,
building.
The sound of it swallowed Howard.
"Sir?
Sir?" The number lady tried to get Howard's attention, waving the
"83" card in front of his face.
Startled, Howard shook his head. "What? Oh."
Handing the card back to him with a disapproving look she
said, "You'll need to wait your turn. 63?"
An old man shuffled past, gripping the "63" card
and glaring at Howard.
Howard made his way back, not even glancing at the poster as
he sat down, not noticing the smile spreading over Maybell's face.
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Zachary is an attorney from downstate Illinois, whiling away his days raising his child, romancing is wife, and periodically scrawling a piece of fiction. You can catch him on his weekly video podcast Triggered--https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7MiPTnePhENPcBFl5wjvjw
Thanks for sharing this story with us, Zachary!
ReplyDeleteNo problem. Thanks for picking it up! There's a sequel in the works wherein Howard goes 80s action hero and covers the DMV in schlock. I'll send it over if I ever write it.
ReplyDelete