A Futile Attempt
Rachel shivered in the hallway of the Ministry of Internal Security Services (MISS). Admittedly, it was 41 degrees centigrade outside, but to cool it inside to 17 degrees seemed to be making a statement directed at those with status so low they were made to wait rather than just walking in to see the higher official they were there to entreat. There was not even a waiting room, just a hard wooden chair that reminded her of the ones in her middle school.
The door to her right opened and a hawk-faced female hominid poked her nose out. “Civilian Rasmussen!” came her brisk, depreciative command.
Rachel got up and entered the office. Inside, it was a reasonable 22 degrees. The predatory secretary motioned her past her fairly imposing desk towards the entrance to the inner room. Rachel could not help but notice the gold-letterd name-plate prominently displayed on the woman's desk: "Miss Haggardie."
The inner sanctum was dimly lit, expansive and clearly expensive. Major Munir sat behind his definitely imposing desk, looking down at its empty surface. Rachel stopped before him and looked around for a chair, to no avail.
The major continued to study his ink blotter. Rachel shifted her weight from one foot to another, then decided to try clearing her throat. Just when she thought the tactic had failed, the major looked up. His gaze was squinty and asymmetric, causing her to wonder whether he had suffered a stroke.
“So...?” he pronounced.
“I'm the observer at the SCHAF- Civilian Rasmussen, Sir!” Rachel extended her hand, in the vague hope that her acknowledgement of her lowly status combined with the honorific might lure the officer out of his elitist stupor.
Her hopes were in vain. “Ummm... the shaft... A civilian... Well, what can we do for you, Dasmussen?”
“I have photos here, showing that the water level has fallen 1.1 meters in the past six days.”
“We already know about that!” he snapped with surprising alacrity. He drew himself up in his chair in a manner suggestive of a hominid jolted out of a doze by an alarming noise.
“But it's such a large drop... And it's my job to-”
“Your job- what is your job, anyway?”
“Observer, Third-Class, Sir.”
“Well, observe then! Do your job and only your job. I'm telling you, Dasmussen, everything's as it should be. Under control!” His stare became less squinty, and he pushed down on the desktop with both palms as he rose halfway out of his chair.
When challenged, Rachel had a risky habit of responding with sarcasm. “Will that be all?” she smirked, pointedly omitting the honorific.
“THAT’S ALL!” Major Munir bellowed. “DISMISSED!”
On her way out, Rachel noticed the Miss Haggardie calmly rearranging papers on her somewhat-imposing desk. She did not look up as Rachel passed. Clearly, in her world, nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and equally clearly, Rachel was stuck between the gears of a machine of denial and obfuscation. As she walked down the long, drab, anonymous institutional hallway, passing door after door behind which scenarios equally alienating and dystopic were doubtless playing out, her anxiety-depression structure flared, like a complex apartment fire suddenly eating into a new oxygen-rich living space.
Out on the street, the light weight, light colored and scant desert clothing of the passers-by made an odd contrast to their visors and face masks. A male hominid passed by as she began stepping out of the doorway of the office building, wearing only a pair of gaudy shorts decorated with a bright red and yellow design of magnified flowers and a black nose and mouth mask. No shirt. As he proceeded rapidly, head down, his path perpendicular to hers, Rachel's momentum carried her towards him in his elbow bumped her upper arm. She thought she heard him mutter something but could not be sure because of the mouth mask. His velocity did not change, and she completed her stepping out and turned left, taking her in the opposite direction.
She could not see him anymore with her eyes, but her mind kept replaying the encounter. His elbow... Bare... Extra detergent... Would that take care of it?... Not supposed to wash this in hot water... Hand wash... With gloves of course... the disturbing encounter became jumbled with the traumatic encounter with Major Munir. If the Major had been dressed only in a pair of swimming trunks, would that have helped her? Was there any connection between the mid-level brass and that weird guy? It was clear “they” did not want her talking about the drop in water level. But right after she did so? How would they let swimming trunks know in time to intercept her?
When her thoughts became jumbled in that way, only one thing would help: Claratize. She was glad she was already headed to the pharmacy.