A Short Description of Hell

“Now calling numbers;” pause. ” 4, 12, 13, 9.” pause. “at window” pause.  “7″.  

The monotonic voice echoed across the room. It bounced off each wall; the sound from each speaker-box reverberating slightly off from the next. It created a constant displeasure similar to that of stripes on plaid. Each consonant could be heard twice.

      Numbers 4, 12, and 9 stood up to begin making their way to the ‘carousel’ that was window 7. Their crystals had turned black and it was time for renewal.

      The air was stale. Frozen. Like the air inside old Tupper-ware, only this air had never known the smell of half-day-old apple sauce or green-beans. It was plastic-ey. Everything in the Department of Motor Vehicles was, even the walls. In fact, the team of scientists who developed the walls was actually given an award for creating “the most boring color in the world.” It’s really quite extraordinary. It can’t quite be placed as grey, because it’s lighter and muddier and phonier. Sort of like the underarm of a dingy old dress shirt. Whatever it is, it’s extremely uncomfortable. Fake. Hollow. Institutional.    

  What little light there was seeped in through the blinds of the windows like the drool from the mouth of number Thirteen who was murmuring nonsense in deep, delta-wave sleep. His hand, which propped up his face, slowly began slipping. It slid from his brow to his cheek, then from his cheek to his lip. His face rolled off his hand and into his lap.          

He jolted upward.

       A scrolling LED light panel above him read,

“numbers 4, 12, 13, 9- Please report to window 7.”          

A quick glance down at his watch (after picking up his very berry Starbucks Frappuccino™ , of course), and he was walking briskly towards the window.

      One man stepped up to window 7. Another walked up behind him. A rather large lady with a silly green hat stood behind him. Then- a tall fat man, a bald skinny one, a woman with a mustache, a teenaged girl chatting on her cell, and three or four people behind her. At the end of the line of ten, or so, stood number Thirteen. It was nearly 3 o clock. His appointment was at 3 o clock.            

He stared forward. The woman at the front desk was the abrasive type- the kind of woman who must act completely differently at work than she does at home because imagining her with friends is nearly impossible otherwise. She was large, loud, and livid looking. Sour. As if she had always just smelled something bad. Number Thirteen watched her face flap around as she talked at the person in the front of the line. He was nodding. If he had had X-ray vision, Thirteen would have peered in through the man’s cheek, through his teeth, and noticed that he was actually biting his tongue so hard that it was beginning to bleed.