Tiger Shrimp Tango полностью

Coleman tugged Serge’s sleeve. “Are all the employees dead?”

“What?”

“They’re like statues. Nobody seems to be moving.”

“The human eye is inadequate. But special time-exposure scientific cameras have recently discovered they’re actually living organisms. It is believed they are the building blocks that create bureaucratic reefs.”

Serge raised his shirt, pulled out a clear tube attached to a plastic bladder Velcro’d to his stomach and began sucking coffee. Slurp, slurp, slurp. Coleman lifted his own shirt to grab a bladder tube for vodka. Slurp, slurp, slurp. A stranger sitting on the other side of Serge stared at them a second, then got up and moved six seats down.

Serge got up and took another chair six seats down next to the stranger. He clenched the tube in the corner of his mouth. “You got a lower number.”

“What?” asked the stranger.

“You have a lower customer-service number on your ticket than I do. Good for you, fair and square. Mine’s forty-three. People automatically think that the numbers are non-transferable, but they’re blind to possibilities. Like sometimes I’ll just go to a motor-vehicles office or a supermarket deli when I have no plans of conducting any business. Then I grab fifty numbers and wait for a whole bunch of people to arrive. And I redistribute the numbers based upon apparent need and good behavior until I’ve shuffled the whole social structure of the crowd.” Slurp, slurp, slurp. “It’s one of the few chances you get to play God. I know I shouldn’t play God, but the temptation is too great. You into Conrad? Heart of Darkness? Apocalypse Now?”

The stranger got up and moved another six seats away.

Serge stood and moved six seats with him. Suck, suck, suck. “Because the ticket system is a micro-example of everything that’s wrong with the country. We’re barreling full tilt into social Darwinism. Can’t thrive in the free market? Lie down in that unpatriotic ditch and die. Same thing in a supermarket deli. Low numbers often go to the pushiest people. Like I’ll see some young mother trying to manage three tots in a shopping cart, and then this buttoned-down young prick intentionally rushes past her to grab a number first. But he has no idea I’ve got my fifty numbers. So I hand the mom my lowest number and wish her blessings. Then more people arrive, and I give numbers to other moms, old people, the poor and the handicapped. Now the prick is ten more spots back. And he glares at me and opens his mouth, and I go, ‘Don’t say a word. I’ve got forty more numbers and can do this all afternoon.’ But he says something anyway—not polite to repeat it. And guess what? I did it all afternoon: Every time someone new arrived, I gave them a lower number, and the jerk could never get to the counter for his marinated mushrooms. I’m guessing about that part, but he looked the type . . . I sure would like your ticket, but I’d never ask. No, no, no, that would put you on the spot, and I’m all about not making people uncomfortable.”

The stranger tossed the stub in Serge’s lap—“take it”—and rushed out of the office.

Serge strolled back to Coleman, who was leaning with his head turned toward the door. “Man, that guy sure left in a hurry. Wonder what got into him.”

“Probably heading to the deli to play God.”

From flush-mount speakers in the ceiling: “Number forty-two . . . Number forty-two? . . . Is forty-two here? . . .”

“He went to the deli,” yelled Serge.

Coleman tugged his sleeve again. “The guy gave you his number before he split.”

“Oh, right!” Serge jumped up and waved his ticket in the air. “Me! Me! Me! I’m forty-two!”

They took a couple of seats at the counter.

“Now, how can I help you today?” asked a matronly civil servant.

“We want to vote!” said Serge.

“Good to hear. You want to register to vote.”

“Right, and then we want to vote.”

“When?”

Serge sucked the clenched tube. “Immediately.”

“But there’s no election going on.”

“What?” Serge removed the tube. “Listen, is this some kind of deal where you’re just trying to leave work early?”

“That’s not it—”

“Because I understand the hardship with government pay and all, but it’s nothing like the minimum-wage customer-care people. I won’t mention names, but you know the stores . . .” The tube went back in, slurp, slurp, slurp. “. . . Those lard-bricks have it down to a science with a one-size-fits-all answer: ‘No.’ And I’m trying to return a toaster, with a receipt no less, but it’s after the thirty days . . .”

“Excuse me—”

“. . . And the woman says I can only exchange it for the exact same model, and only if it’s defective, even though I’ve already told her that I want to upgrade to a better toaster and am willing to pay the difference—like she’s not listening to a single word I’m saying . . .”

“Excuse me—”