Paper Chase

I'm writing this quickly. I'm afraid I don't have much time. Any minute I expect to hear that Anne Frank police siren dopplering closer, the warbling crescendo suddenly cutting off, followed by the sound of massive black Mercedes doors being pushed open and quickly slamming shut. Then, the inevitable heavy boot falls on the stairs, the pounding on the front door. Should I bother double locking? It makes no sense. They'll just come crashing through anyway, confronting me as I cower at my computer, clad in my pajamas.

I knew it was wrong as I was doing it. I had read the warning on the screen at work-the admonition not to waste paper. My God, there was even a paper conservation act that had been passed by congress to keep people like me from squandering our nation's precious natural resources. Its bold text flashes in front of you under the sign of the big eagle every time you log-on to the federal computer system. But squander I did. I couldn't help myself. I tried. Really! I tried printing out the one sheet that needed correcting instead of the whole disability report. But no, it didn't work.

I'd been warned during training that the program we use is not really a word processor and has many bugs. Printing bugs included. "Why use it then," I asked? The sudden sound of silence in the classroom and the icy, condescending stare I received from the instructor was an eloquent non-verbal reminder that I needn't ask "why" questions when it comes to the government.

As I made my way through the cubicular maze to the OMVE office laser printer, I saw that there was a stack of paper in the hopper. That couldn't be all mine, could it? I stared at the pile. Just how many laws had I broken? I quickened my pace to get to the Lexmark as fast as I could. I glanced right and left, wondering if I'd been detected. So far, so good! I picked up the stack and was suddenly transfixed by its weight. It was worse than I had imagined. At least 20 superfluous sheets. I began perspiring heavily. I stood there planning my next move, trying not to be too obvious in my discomfort when I suddenly felt a tap on the shoulder and whirled around to see a white haired gent smiling, half bent with stooped shoulders-the posture my bride always warns me that I will end up with if I don't stand up straight-sporting plaid pants pulled up to mid-chest level, white shoes-the kind they aren't allowed to issue unless you are at least 75, banlon shirt and super wide-lapelled polyester Madras suit coat. I knew this guy-an older doc from my neck of the woods, a holdover from the era when nobody questioned what doctors did or why they did it- a survivor from the time that when you called a restaurant for a reservation and said Doctor so and so, they actually saved you a nice table, and when you finally showed up, they let you cut ahead of all the non-Doctors waiting in line. Very likely a former officer at the Silver Birch -a 1950's and 60's upper-middle class Jewish alternative (Uncle George took me there a few times) to the gentile swim clubs that wouldn't let my people in. He looked at me, glanced at my papers and croaked, " Ditch 'em quick!" I breathed a sigh of relief. He won't rat me out. I found my way back to my alcove and quickly plunged my shame deep into the govt. issued pre-shred box we each have on our desks. I dove back into the case I was working on.

It couldn't have been more than 5 or so minutes when I heard it-the rhythmic creaking sound of the bent wheel on a supermarket cart being pushed by a heavy set, cocoa colored woman wearing too much makeup, a grey office smock, and latex gloves softly alto-humming a spiritual. It was her job to collect the contents of all of the boxes and deliver them to the OSD (Office of Shredding and Destruction). I nonchalantly handed her my box. She hefted it, winked at me and dumped its contents into her cart. "Thanks, Shugah.." was all she said. I turned my attention back to the computer, subliminally noting that she pressed something on the side of her cart.

I finished my report and saw that it was about 45 minutes before I usually knock off for the day. I ambled over to the administrator's desk for another record to start checking. Rather than handing me one, without looking up from her terminal she said to me, "Oh, don't start one now. You'll do it tomorrow." OK, I figured. Tomorrow. I gathered up my briefcase, said goodbye to my colleagues and walked out. As I pushed the button at the elevator bank, my mind wandered back to the supermarket cart and it started to all make sense. I felt a tingling slowly work its way from sacrum to atlas. It was then I knew. It wouldn't be too long until I was visited by the dreaded FPP (Federal Paper Police). I made it home, to my room and here I sit waiting, just waiting. But you know...Despite everything, I feel people are really good at heart...

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