hoary
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Jeff glanced at the clock hanging over the door. Had it really been an hour he got on line? It felt like more. It was moving, but at a glacial speed. Still, he was getting closer. He had to be. He peaked out around the people in front of him, seeing the end of the line.
The woman at the desk was old, in several ways. She sported a loose bun of grey hair. Her skin was wrinkled and weathered. But it was her eyes that really gave away her age. They were tired eyes. Eyes that had been going on for far too long. Eyes that seemed just as dead as alive.
The person talking to the worn old woman finally finished his business. The well dressed man stepped away, and the line inched forward. The woman’s mouth moved. Speaking words she had no doubt spoken countless times. Words as stale and dry as year old crackers. He could not hear what they were yet, but he knew he would soon. Probably once another five or six people had taken their turns at the front of the line.
As he got closer, he could see more of the woman. It was not just her hair that had lose its color with age. Her skin was pale. Her lips were cracked and colorless. Even her clothes seemed faded from the passage of time. She was a living testament to time itself. A reminder that it is unceasing and uncaring. That all stories, interesting and dull, grow weary and tired when told enough times.
He got closer. The woman’s voice was audible now. The words were nothing special. Giving a set of instructions for whatever the person across from her wanted done. It seemed like this mostly involved filling out a small stack of forms and bringing them to a different counter. The voice delivering these tedious words was thin and hoarse. The voice of someone who had spoke often and loudly, until she could not do so anymore. The voice of someone who no longer cared what she spoke of, for all the words that mattered have already been said.
He wondered what those eyes had seen. What stories she had to tell. What kind of life did that woman lead to lead her to this desk, in his office, in this part of the country? Has she always been a dull person who was content to sit there and answer questions? Or did she used to be an adventurous woman who would go out and challenge the world until age forced her to sit back? Her appearance gave no clues to either of those, or to any other possibility.
Eventually, Jeff stood in front of the woman. She gave a tired, slow blink as she looked at him. Her eyes were indeed hollow. Without emotion or the spark of life. But they still worked. The woman started speaking, giving her memorized lines to him. He paused before answering. Should he ask about her past? What she had lived through? What she had seen or done? Should he get her story?
A cough behind him was a quiet reminder of where he was. He gave the old woman his request. She replied with her long list of forms to fill out. Then he stepped out of line. As the next person stood where he just was, he made up his mind. He would get her story another time.
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Not much to say today. So I'll just say this: Don't mistreat public servants. They have a draining job and really don't want to deal with uncooperative and unpleasant people any more than you do.
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