You Are a Ghost. (Sign Here Please) Page 2

  “Hello again,” he said cheerily.

  She looked up and gave him the kind of look that he would have applauded from his serial killer. It was halfway between the sort of look you give to a toddler who has just embezzled the entire life savings of another toddler and spent it on lottery tickets, and the sort of look that you would give something really miserable and disgusting that had just dared to drag itself across the perimeter of your home, like the mayor of Dead Donkey. Her eyes narrowed to little slits, presumably so she could minimize the amount she had to look at him.

  “Oh, it’s you,” the frumpy woman said, in a masterful tone of disdain and hatred that matched her look.

  Nathan continued to smile cheerily. Come to think of it, he guessed he didn’t know her so well after all, but he was determined not to let that stop him from being civil.

  “How has your day been?” he inquired.

  “It was going alright until you showed up,” she snapped. “Your file is out of order. Do you have any idea how much paperwork I’m going to have to do because of you? Fortunately, I don’t have to process you myself.”

  “I’ve been doing very well,” Nathan said. He had not exactly been listening to what the frumpy woman had told him - his mind tended to screen out the hostility that bureaucrats showed towards him.

  The frumpy woman meanwhile had whipped out a Form 795168-I: “Notice of Contact With Nathan Haynes of Dead Donkey, Nevada,” and was rapidly filling it out.

  “There is a special protocol for you,” she said. The frumpy woman had managed to conjure up considerably more saliva than Nathan expected to spit out this last word, dripping as it was with hatred. “You’re to be sent straight to Director Fulcher’s office.”

  “That’s alright,” Nathan said. “I know where it is. Just send me there.”

  “Fine,” the frumpy woman said, and waved her hand. A door appeared in the side of the room and Nathan knew to step through it, whistling cheerily as he did. So far he thought things were going rather well.

  He appeared in the middle of an infinitely long hallway, along which doors occasionally popped into and out of existence. It was a very familiar sight to Nathan. Continuing to hum a few bars from one of his favorite mouthwash advertisements, Nathan strolled down to the door at the very end of the infinite hallway, which he knew to belong to Director Fulcher. He tugged the door open and blinked, confused.

  Nathan must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because he was not standing in Director Fulcher’s office, which he knew to be populated by several potted plants and one very angry bureaucrat. Instead, he was standing in the middle of a vast room filled with hundreds of bureaucrats, all of whom were hurriedly shuffling papers between filing cabinets - or more accurately from filing cabinets and into fires. Very near Nathan, one bureaucrat filled out a series of forms as fast as he could then handed them to the man next to him, who quickly shoveled them into an incinerator. These actions were being mimicked by bureaucrats all across the room. Nathan blinked at them and picked up one of the forms from the table. It was labelled Form 465044: Acknowledgement of Bureaucratic Error. The fields on the form said:

  “In as little detail as possible, describe the error that has occurred, without referencing the numbers of any other forms. For succeeding questions, stop and immediately destroy this form if any question is answered in the affirmative.”

  The next line read:

  “Is it possible that no error has actually occurred? Aren’t things actually better off this way, now that you stop to think about it? Yes/Yes/Definitely/Certainly/Maybe/Of Course - circle all that apply.”

  The line after that read:

  “If things are not better off, isn’t it possible that this really wasn’t a bureaucratic mistake after all? Isn’t someone else really ultimately to blame? Check all that apply: Yes/Yes/That bastard, I’ll get him for this!”

  After that, the form said.

  “Are you sure? Surely, someone who isn’t a bureaucrat must be to blame for this mistake. Isn’t that right? Fill in all that apply. Yes/Yes/I know where he lives!”

  Then it went on to ask.

  “Was the sum of damages caused by this mistake zero dollars or less? Mark all that apply. Yes/Yes/Actually it was negative, and they should be paying us, now that you mention it.”

  Lastly, the form queried:

  “Fine, so a mistake was made. Mistakes happen. Are you sure it can’t all be hushed up? Punch holes for all that apply. Yes/Yes/We could easily hush it up/It’s already been hushed up/I’m hushing it up right now. REMINDER: Destroy this form if any question has been answered in the affirmative.”

  Nathan looked back at the bureaucrat destroying the forms. He was shoveling them zealously into the hungry fire of an incinerator by the armful.

  Suddenly, someone caught Nathan’s attention by shouting his name rather loudly.

  “Nathan? What are you doing here?”

  Nathan turned to see a man with a certain joint aura of authority and hopelessness and a tie done up in the immensely complicated triple-windsor knot. Nathan knew that this man’s name was Ian, and he was a bureaucrat who reported to Director Fulcher. Ian grabbed Nathan’s hand and started to pump it up and down very aggressively.

  “I should explain that my name is Ian-”

  “I remember who you are, Ian,” Nathan said. “I also remember Donna and Director Fulcher and everything else you’ve ever explained to me. Where am I?”

  “Ah. Let me explain that this is the Bureaucratic Mistakes and Complaints Department, which I oversee. I should explain that a mistake is an accident, a happenstance that was not intended whereby-”

  “I know what a mistake is, Ian.”

  Ian had continued to pump his hand up and down very aggressively.

  “Do you? Good, good. It saves me a lot of explaining, but I feel I should also explain I am a manager here-”

  “I know that too,” Ian, Nathan said with a heavy sigh. “Will you please let go of my hand?”

  Ian let go. Nathan’s hand had turned a strange purplish color.

  “What brings you here?” Ian asked. “I’m curious to know. Curiosity is an emotion-”

  “I know, I know,” Nathan said quickly. “I just happened to wander in. I thought this was Director Fulcher’s office. Why is there a complaints department?”

  “Ah, well, it so happens that from time to time, bureaucratic errors and mistakes are made, and it is important to handle the related complaints in as efficient a manner as possible.”

  He gestured to the two men, one of whom was burning the forms that had just been filled out by the other.

  “That is efficient,” Nathan had to admit. “But wouldn’t it be better to just not fill out the forms and shove them straight into the fire?”

  Ian frowned at him.

  “Of course not. Then there would be no point.”

  Just then, a bureaucrat with a single-windsor knot tie dashed up to Ian.

  “Ian,” the bureaucrat called. “There’s been a terrible mistake.” He waved what looked like an unburnt copy of the form that the other bureaucrats were all busily destroying. “Someone misfiled a 51153 as a 51153A, and it made the entire Andromeda Galaxy disappear.”

  “Oh dear,” Ian said. “File a 99493 - Authorization to Temporarily Distract All Physicists and then revoke the 51153A and replace it with a 51153. If that doesn’t work, then just forget about it. Probably no one will notice.”

  “Right,” the other bureaucrat said, and retreated to his desk. Nathan noticed he set fire to the mistake form as soon as he sat down.

  “Er... isn’t it bad that the Andromeda galaxy disappeared?” Nathan queried.

  “Hm? What? No, happens all the time. Don’t worry about it. As I was saying, one of my several important functions here in this wing is to run the Mistakes and Complaints Department, so whenever bureaucrats make a mistake it can be easily and quickly rectified.”

  “How many mistakes do you make here?” Nathan asked.


  “Do you mean how many mistakes I make in my department?” Ian looked taken aback and perhaps a little insulted. “There are no mistakes in the Mistake Department. That would be unthinkable! We repair mistakes that have already been made.”

  “I mean how many mistakes do the other bureaucrats make?”

  Ian relaxed a little.

  “Oh, well, the bureaucrats outside my supervision make many mistakes a second. That’s why we here in the Mistakes Department have to work so hard to report and make up for them.”

  A second man ran up to Ian.

  “Ian, an accountant named Claude Thaddios of 400 King Street, Rome turned into a rock after someone filed a 90188 - Instrument to Make An Accountant Named Claude Thaddios of 400 King Street, Rome Turn Into A Rock.”

  “Well, was he supposed to turn into a rock?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I checked twice. What should we do?”

  “File a 90189 - Instrument to Make A Rock Turn Into An Accountant Named Claude Thaddios of 400 King Street, Rome. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll draft him an apology. I should explain that an apology is a statement indicating remorse-”

  Nathan sighed. He didn’t really feel he had the energy to tell Ian to stop correcting him. Ian had the natural chirpiness and intensity of a hummingbird that has just drunk an entire can of Red Bull that it mistook for a flower, so he was inherently a difficult person to keep up with at the best of times. Still, Nathan told himself, one had to maintain a positive attitude, even if things didn’t seem to be quite going your way - just like Nathan had told his serial killer.

  “So what would I do if I wanted to report a mistake or file a complaint?” Nathan asked.

  Ian suddenly looked cagey.

  “Why?” he asked sharply. “Do you have a complaint?”

  It didn’t escape Nathan’s notice that Ian’s hand had just dropped to a form on a nearby table labelled Form 621449 - Authorization to Silence Witness Who Doesn’t Know To Keep His Trap Shut.

  “No, I don’t,” Nathan said quickly. “I was just wondering.”

  Ian relaxed.

  “Oh, well, you would just fill out the Form 750657 for Permission To Wait In A Complaints Department Line in triplicate and then once you’d received the necessary authorization, get into line in the next room.”

  “How long is the line?”

  “Not long,” Ian answered.

  There were in actuality about a quizillion people in the Complaints Department line in the next room and the last time just one had been processed was in 1926, and that had essentially been by accident. The department’s waiting room was now packed full of people who wanted to know why their pets had suddenly grown wings or their houses flipped upside-down or their cherished loved ones spontaneously teleported to the moon. A considerable number of people also wished to know why they had gone through their lives poor, miserable, and misfortunate, but by in large the Complaints Department ultimately turned these people away - this wasn’t a mistake, it was just that some people got a very, very raw deal. Generally, the complaints personnel told them they should just count their lucky stars that they hadn’t been born as a Sumatran Toad and sent them on their way.

  Nathan didn’t know any of this. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t have been thinking of filing a complaint that the sun was sometimes, in his opinion, too bright and hot. He also did not know that the sun has to be exactly as bright and hot as it is, or otherwise everyone on Earth would either freeze to death or burn to death, but then again he wasn’t really the sort of person who was in the business of knowing that kind of thing. Fortunately for all plants and animals that depend on the sun, Nathan decided it was more pressing that he should get in to see Director Fulcher and abandoned the idea of filing a complaint. This was probably best for everyone.

  “I was on my way to see Director Fulcher,” Nathan told Ian. “I’d love to stay around and chat with you but I really have to be on my way. Can you tell me how to reach him? I must have gotten lost.”

  “Of course,” Ian said. He reached into his pocket and took out a device that Nathan had absolutely never seen before, but it looked like a little magic 8-ball. However, in the place where most magic 8-balls say, “Yes,” “No,” “Maybe,” and “Ask Again Later,” this magic 8-ball said, “Mistakes and Complaints Department.” Ian shook it vigorously. A beam of light then shot out of it and a door appeared in the middle of the room, right where Nathan was standing. The 8-ball now said, “Director Fulcher’s Office.”

  “Just step right through that door. I should explain that a door-”

  “I know what a door is, Ian, but what’s that 8-ball you have?”

  “Oh, this? This is a Bureaucratic Transit Device. It allows one to create a door to wherever one wishes to go in the building, which is very handy for moving between departments. You see, generally speaking one moves from place to place by filling out forms.”

  “Obviously,” Nathan agreed.

  “However, when you are actually within the bureaucratic offices themselves, one might not have the forms on hand necessary to move to some other part of the building, and walking to that part of the building via the hallway could be time-consuming, confusing, maybe even distressing to the uninitiated. Particularly if you accidentally walk into the Accidents Department.”

  “I thought this was the Accidents Department.”

  Ian vigorously shook his head agitatedly, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he did so.

  “No, no, Nathan. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? This is the Mistakes and Complaints Department. The Accidents department is where all the Accidents happen. Anything could happen to you there - you could be reassigned, or you could lose the file you’re carrying, or you could even fill out a form you didn’t mean to, which would create a lot of work for me. You could also end up in almost any other room: the No Unauthorized Exit Zone, the Room For Pouring Scalding Hot Oyster Sauce Over People, even the casino.”

  “You have a casino?” Nathan repeated.

  “Yes, we do. I will explain some other time when I’m not already explaining something. Now, to avoid those sorts of mistakes we invented the Bureaucratic Transit Device to shuttle people from place to place and tweaked the regulations so you can fill out the proper forms after the fact. All you have to do is shake it and a door to wherever you want to go will appear, so long as the room has a door. It’s very convenient.”

  “That does sound convenient,” Nathan said. “May I have one?”

  Ian gave a hollow laugh.

  “You,” he said imperiously, “Are not a bureaucrat. Anyway, I have summoned the door to Director Fulcher’s office so you had better go through it as soon as possible. No doubt the Director is expecting you.” He paused. “You will forgive me for not coming with you, of course. As I have explained in the past, I do not much like going to see Director Fulcher.”

  “That’s quite alright,” Nathan forgave him. “Thank you for everything.”

  He opened the door and prepared to step through.

  “You’re welcome,” Ian replied chirpily. “Please never come back! It’s a terrible nuisance when you do!”

  Chapter 3

  Nathan stepped through the door to find himself in a room that contained several chairs, a large, stately, hardwood desk, a handful of potted plants, a filing cabinet, and one huge and very angry-looking man. For the moment, Nathan ignored the very angry-looking man and focused on the plants, which were resting peacefully and unobtrusively around him. Nathan had a theory for why people kept plants in their offices. It was not, as was commonly held, because people simply liked having plants around - Nathan had never understood that suggestion. Unlike say, a dog or a walrus, a plant is immobile and therefore incapable of showing or returning affection, going for energetic walks with you, playing catch and other games, or relentlessly licking your leg in that annoying but at the same time rascally sort of way that dogs and/or walruses tend t
o do. Office plants also did not bear fruit or grain or seed or wood or anything else that Nathan might have found remotely useful.

  Therefore, in Nathan’s opinion (and it must be remembered at this point that Nathan had severe brain damage), people wouldn’t possibly have plants in their places of work just because they liked having plants around - the color, the smell, or the sense of life, for example. This went doubly true for plants in the office of a high-ranking bureaucrat like Director Fulcher, who obsessed over efficiency and obviously would not stock his office with unnecessary things.

  The only logical conclusion, then, was that the plant performed some highly necessary but invisible function that justified all of the effort the office dweller went through to keep it, water it, prune it, and generally maintain the plant. At last Nathan decided that the reason people kept plants in offices was for their ability to produce oxygen. People with office plants must be angry, shouty people who are always engaged in loud arguments where they bellow at the top of their lungs with other individuals who do the same, and the plant was obviously the only thing stopping the atmosphere from turning so rancid and carbonic that everyone suffocated to death from an excess of office-rage fueled wheezings. Logically speaking, that meant that the people with plants in their offices must have been angry, shouty sorts of people.

  Director Fulcher was a very angry, shouty man. He was tall, at least six and a half feet, and broad enough to intimidate some of the smaller buildings that Nathan had ever known. His hair was silver gray, and there was a merciless bureaucratic glint in his dark eyes as he stared angrily at Nathan. He was not wearing a tie.