The Wired Man

9

Personal Entry: The Wired Man

The large sliding glass doors of the SPA's central office glided open, and my stomach twisted into a knot as I stopped in the middle of the walkway. I knew I had no choice, but that didn't make applying for assistance any easier.

I stepped across the threshold, and a blast of cold air blew down on my neck from the vents above. I shivered. The giant metal seal on the back wall reflected the sterile fluorescent light. Social Protection Agency.

The place looked like a larger version of the DMV, filled with people milling back and forth from the front desk to a long table that held pencils and forms. Every fiber of my being wanted to run, but I knew no matter what I did I would be back. Starvation is one hell of a motivator.

I walked up to the bland, white desk to my right and presented myself to a tall, heavyset man in a tan collared shirt. He held out a wand scanner and interfaced with my implant.

"Your number in the queue is 572," he said with mechanical precision. I was really nothing more than a number now.

I threaded through the mass of people wandering about and found my way to the waiting room. There were a few first-timers like me, but most were the standard-issue failure template: white t-shirt, blue jeans, and possibly a gray baseball cap if they had been so inclined to request. It starts with food, but when your clothes and other things begin to wear out, you are forced to take more aid until you look like something out of an old 1984 remake.

I snatched a magazine off the table and went to the least populated corner of the room.

"Fancy seeing you here," said a voice from across the room as I sat down.

My heart skipped a beat. I knew that voice.

I tried to keep my gaze to the wall as he made his way over and sat down to my right, but it was no use. He knew who I was, so no sense in playing dumb. It was my old cube neighbor.

"Great," I said. "Look who it is."

"What was that?" he said. "I couldn't hear you."

His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and his white t-shirt was covered in small, yellow dots of what I hoped was beer. I finally mustered up the courage to face this god-awful place, and here this dick was.

"The asshole finally gets what he deserves. Is that it?" I said.

"Not at all."

"What do you find so funny, then?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"What do you want?" I said.

He continued flicking pages of a magazine he had picked up.

"An apology? Is that it? I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"What do you want from me?"

"How's that pretty girlfriend of yours?"

"Screw you."

"Feisty now."

The room went silent, and I felt a collective wincing at the confrontation playing out before them. People weren't used to fights in public, negative score was good at keeping that in check, except when both parties had nothing to lose.

"I hope you're enjoying yourself," I said.

"You have no idea."

A clerk came in and called someone's name. A petite woman seated across from us gathered up her purse and ran out the room.