Bureaucratic Superposition¶
I don’t believe in time travel, which is why they hired me.
—Clerk #47, 14:59:32
The form says Describe Anomalies. I write: Left hand occasionally becomes transparent. Suspect inadequate lighting. Supervisor stamp: Approved for Continued Observation. My fingers tremble—translucency makes penmanship difficult. They’ve replaced the office bulbs three times. Never mention the teeth.
—Dentist’s Assistant, 14:58:17
Patient #8812 (Clerk #47) insists his molars are “shifting.” I check his X-rays: normal. He insists louder. I stamp Hysterical Tension and prescribe phenobarbital. My own left eye just split into two smaller eyes. I blink. They merge back. The clipboard hides my hands.
—Supervisor Halvorsen, 14:57:04
File #Q-ENT-55: Subjects exhibiting quantum entanglement symptoms. Protocol: Increase paperwork. Clerk #47’s reports now include “fingers fusing.” I initiate Form 12-B: Request for Additional Forms. Denial of benefits pending psychiatric evaluation. My stomach churns—a routine side effect of lunchroom pie. Or the way my intestines occasionally braid themselves.
—Clerk #47, 14:56:39
They moved my desk. Again. Or did I move? The grid lines on the carpet blur. I count tiles to stay focused: 17 east, 23 north. Supervisor says I’m “disoriented.” I stamp Received: One Dose of Condescension. My left leg dematerializes. I wait. It returns. I file the incident under Weather-Related Fatigue.
—Dentist’s Assistant, 14:55:12
Patient #8831 (Supervisor Halvorsen) complains of “internal knots.” I note Chronic Constipation and prescribe prune juice. His jaw dislocates mid-sentence. I stitch it shut with dental floss. He thanks me, voice muffled. My own spine unpivots—a slow, wet crack. I lean on the desk. It holds.
—Supervisor Halvorsen, 14:54:03
Memo from Director’s Office: All personnel must verify corporeal integrity hourly. I design Form 14-C: Self-Certification of Solids. Clerk #47 submits his with a smile—half his face lags three seconds behind. I approve it. My own certification is flawless. A lie. My liver is currently a fist-sized hummingbird.
—Clerk #47, 14:53:21
They’ve installed a mirror in the break room. For morale. I avoid it. The coffee tastes like copper. My shadow detaches, waves. I wave back. It sits. Supervisor Halvorsen walks by, leaves a trail of faint afterimages. I file an Incident Report. The typewriter keys bleed.
—Dentist’s Assistant, 14:52:44
Patient #8845 (Janitor) claims the trash cans “eat time.” I stamp Schizophreniform Disorder and confiscate his keys. His hands are webbed. I develop a sudden craving for fish. My scalp peels back. I adjust my hat. The patients are getting harder to distinguish from the walls.
—Supervisor Halvorsen, 14:51:19
The Director visits. Demands results. I show him Clerk #47’s latest form: I am a loyal citizen of the United States and a properly configured human. The Director nods. I nod. My left eye becomes a compass rose. It points east. The Director’s head tilts, birdlike. I stamp Meeting Adjourned.
—Clerk #47, 14:50:00
Final countdown. I submit my resignation in triplicate. Supervisor says nothing—his mouth is now a seam. I walk out. The sun hurts. My shadow stays behind, waving. I don’t look back. The form was wrong: I never had a left hand.
The lie? Clerk #47 never filed that last resignation. I saw it in the trash, half-eaten by time.
—System Audit Log, 14:49:59