Unravel
The tickets pulled taut, the number printed appearing on the screen above.
W503.
It flashed once, then disappeared. The line of numbers too long. It disappeared beneath the ones ahead. The person who pulled it didn’t bother looking up, they turned, shuffling through the crowd, selecting a seat towards the back.
The room was full of individual chairs, set in rows twenty deep, fifteen per row. The counters in the front were occupied by no fewer than eight workers, though they clearly had room for more.
Music didn’t play here, unlike a waiting room of a hospital, or an elevator. Instead, the room was quiet except for the many patrons.
A mother with her children. A child with their elderly parent. A lone, impatient middle-aged man. No one spoke between the many groups, and those groups speaking together in hushed whispers only reinforced the distance between them.
Above the counters a large screen shuffled between current patrons and the ones who pulled a ticket.
“Now serving ticket number D49 at counter 8.” The voice was robotic. Automated.
The mother gathered her children, balancing papers in her arms while carrying a carseat in one arm, her other grasping the hand of a child.
The ticket was pulled taut, its paper is rough — recycled.
Used.
W698.
35 minutes. 30 minutes. 15 minutes. 25 minutes.
Time shifts. Up. Down. Rarely does it finish counting.
A man in a suit comes inside, bypassing the roll of tickets on the wall.
The numbers on the screen are split in two. To the left, if viewed from the rows of chairs, the numbers are in order, a mix of W’s and D’s. The right contains a different set of numbers.
“Now serving F294 at counter 4.”
Seconds pass. The man in the suit rises and proceeds to the counter.
The workers lay hidden somewhere behind the glass that separates them from the ones they serve. Papers pass through slits, the workers pursuing them and passing them back in moments.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The keyboards create a music that isn’t there.
The ticket is pulled taut.
W856.
W873.
D94.
W920.
The mother is long gone. The elderly parent and their child gave up, slipping out the door without a word.
The impatient man waited. And waited. And waited.
The ticket is pulled taut.
W999.
The door opens and a young woman walks in, her papers gripped under her arm. Neat and organized.
“Please pull a ticket.” The man behind the counter says, indicating the roll on the stand.
She glances down and frowns.
“It’s empty.”
She shuffles her feet, feeling uncomfortable under their gaze.
The man sighs, unlocks the door and walks slowly down the hallway. The group of doors at the end of the hallway give no indication of anything special.
The man is gone for minutes, but nothing changes. The numbers remain. The workers pass papers. The patrons speak in hushed tones.
Slowly, the man walks back. He stops in front of the counter and replaces the roll.
He unlocks the door and sits behind the counter once more.
“Take a number.”
The ticket is pulled taut.
The screen flashes.
W1. 125 minutes.
No one moves. The impatient man, the one who’s been here longest, finally stands and leaves.
The women stares down at her ticket. Blinks.
It’s torn at the edges.