fancy. Nothing special. Thus, the emptiness of the hall paled in comparison to the emptiness in Charlie’s life.
It actually made him feel welcomed.
Still, he wondered—why the long walk?
His footsteps pattered.
On and on. Charlie checked his watch a dozen times. A hundred times. A thousand times.
It didn’t matter, though. His ticket was stamped. He was technically on time.
Charlie hated being late.
—And he heard the penalty was harsh.
He finally reached the door at the end of the hall. He jiggled the handle, and let himself in.
Another counter.
Another clerk.
This time, it was a man.
Charlie was still worried he might get in trouble for being late, but the man said nothing of it. He took Charlie’s ticket and scanned it, finally handing it back.
“Name?”
“Charlie Hoag.”
“Spell it.”
And the process repeated itself, because repetition is part of the future.
Charlie finally entered. The room was massive, a wide auditorium. Hundreds waited.
Hundreds like him.
The lucky ones.
They clustered in small groups.
Others remained alone.
Some sat, some stood.
Charlie walked the outskirts, finally leaning against the back wall.
He watched as some people laughed.
While others sang.
A few even cried.
He didn’t understand that.
Charlie remained alone. He was always alone. Servitude meant sacrifice, and Charlie was most happy to be here. He had thought of this day for many years. He had hoped for it. The day he received his summons in the mail, Charlie knew it was the best day of his life.
Then again, Charlie had never known a woman.
“Ah, hello,” he said to a teenager next to him. He was nervous, and hoped to make conversation.
“Hey,” muttered the kid, his head looking down.
“My name’s Charlie.”
“Okay,” the kid replied, uninterested.
“How long you been waiting?”
The youth turned his head, looking up at Charlie.
“I dunno. Awhile, I guess.”
Charlie nodded his head. “I just got here.”
A voice chimed overhead.
“Six-two-five-five-seven-eight-six.”
The teenager looked at his ticket.
“What’s that mean?”
“They’re ident numbers,” said the kid with a sigh.
“Oh, of course.” Charlie mumbled the numbers under his breath. “Not me.”
“Hm,” replied the teenager.
“There’s a lot of people here.”
“Yup.”
“I hope I get called soon.”
The teenager tilted his head up, looking at Charlie strangely.
“I hope I do. I want to do my part, ya know?”
“Okay,” was the response. The kid looked back to the ground.
“I thought I was going to be late,” added Charlie, as if the kid cared at all. “I took the 12. I knew I shouldn’t have, especially this time of day.”
And on and on, Charlie blabbed.
“Six-four-nine-five-six-two-six.”
“. . . he nearly sideswiped me, I tell ya.”
“Six-four-seven-six-two-six-one.”
“. . . I swear, there’s never a cop around when you need one,” Charlie looked at his ticket, then continued, “So anyways, he cut across two lanes . . .”
The teenager shifted.
Another number was called out. A synthetic voice. An uncaring voice.
The teenager shifted, looking at his ticket.
“That you?” Charlie asked.
“Nah,” said the kid. Before Charlie could speak once more, the teenager jammed his earphones in his ears, turned, and walked away.
Charlie didn’t protest. He was accustomed to such things.
A few minutes passed.
A few minutes more.
In a room packed full of people, Charlie was alone.
As he waited, he thought of his apartment, wondering if he had turned off all the lights.
Did I feed the cat?
Did I lock the front door?
A woman neared him, leaning her back against the wall. She looked pale, as if she might faint. She was clutching her ticket tight in her hand, staring ahead at the other people waiting. She was solemn, and didn’t want to talk.
“Hello,” said Charlie, his voice friendly.
“Hi,” she mumbled.
“Are you late? I think it’s past nine.”
She looked at her ticket. “I’m 9:30.”
“Oh,” he replied. Not a few minutes passed before he began chattering again.
“. . . I don’t know why a cop is never around when you see one. Anyway, that’s why I was late. I just hate being late.”
More numbers called overhead.
People came.
People went.
“Seven-nine-seven-one-six-two-one”
The woman turned to Charlie. She hadn’t spoken the entire time.
“That’s me,” she mumbled. “It’s my time.”
He tried to fake a smile, but this pissed him off. This woman—this 9:30, was called ahead of him.
“I just don’t understand. Technically, I wasn’t late. My ticket even proves that.”
“It’s my time,” repeated the woman. She seemed sad, but Charlie took no notice. She crunched her ticket, shook her head twice, and disappeared into the crowd of people, toward the front of the room.
“Did they skip me?”
“Perhaps I should ask.”
“Can they skip people?”
Charlie saw a middle-aged man nearby. He casually walked to the man’s side, and stood next to him for a minute, before asking, “Excuse me, sir. Can someone not be picked?”
“Huh?”
“Everyone’s supposed to be picked, right?”
“I guess.”
“It’s just . . . they haven’t called my number yet. That woman—the 9:30—she was called before me.”
“Okay,” the man muttered.
“I was supposed to be here at 9:00. I was running a bit late, but I was on time. Three minutes early, actually.”
“No clue, buddy,” the man said. “I’m sure you’ll get called soon.”
“I really hope so,” said Charlie, excited. “This is a special day for me. For all of us,” he added, proudly.
But the man said nothing. A few minutes later and his number was called.
Tick tock of the clock.
The synthetic voice kept a steady pace.
Some came. More went.
10:01 am.
“Something isn’t right,” said Charlie to the woman. She was older, looked like someone’s grandmother. “I’ve been here an hour. That last guy—he was only here for fifteen minutes.”
“I see, dear. My, I don’t know what to tell you,” she said, attempting to calm Charlie’s incessant chatter.
“I don’t mean to create a fuss, I’m just wondering if I should ask someone. Maybe they skipped me. Maybe they thought I was late. Aren’t there penalties for that?”
“Oh, I really don’t know.”
“I always heard there were. I was on time, so I shouldn’t have any penalties. See,” he said, holding up his ticket.
“Yes. It says 8:57 am.”
“Three minutes early,” Charlie nodded.
The old woman was polite. She listened to Charlie intently. She answered his questions. She calmed him.
Finally, he asked, “Where do we go when they call us?”
“I think there’s a door. Up there,” she said, pointing. “They seem to be going there.”
Charlie stood on his tip-toes, but he was a little guy, and couldn’t really see.
“When they call my number, I need to k
now where to go. How come they didn’t explain this to us?”
“I don’t know, dear. Hush now, don’t worry about such things.”
“I can’t help myself. I want to do right. I want to be early. I’d hate to not know where to go when they call my number.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” she answered with a smile.
10:39 am.
The old woman was called. She did not hesitate, she did not stall. The woman disappeared into the crowd and Charlie hardly noticed.
“There has to be some mistake. There has to be.”
10:44 am.
“Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one.”
“That’s me!” Charlie exclaimed. “That’s my number.”
Nobody around him took notice.
Charlie mumbled the same identity number he had since childhood, just to make sure. He didn’t want to be wrong, so he checked it twice. More so, Charlie definitely didn’t want to be late. He pulled from the wall and entered the crowd. He headed to where he thought he was supposed to go. He had a hard time seeing, because he was so short, but Charlie pushed through regardless.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon. I have to get through.”
“They called my number.”
“They picked me.”
He walked through groups of people.
Some standing, some sitting.
A few laughed.
Others sang.
Some cried.
He didn’t understand that.
This was an important day.
“Excuse me.”
“Pardon. I have to get through.”
The most important day of his life.
“They called my number.”
“They picked me.”
There was a door. Another clerk stood at a counter, but no partition separated them. Not this time. Another woman, this one attractive. A beaming smile appeared on her face as he pushed through the last line of waiting people.
“Hello,” said Charlie.
“Six-two-oh-seven-two-eight-one?” she asked.
“That’s me,” beamed Charlie. “Did I make it on time?”
“You sure did,” said the woman. Her eyes were wide, focused on him. Her smile radiated her face. Her voice was soft—sensual.
“Do you have your ticket?” she asked.
“I do,” he said, flirting slightly. He dug in his pocket, and couldn’t find it.
“What the hell?”
“Excuse me, sir?” She pointed to his front pocket.
“Oh, of course,” he said with a