Bureaucratic Waltz (Remix)

I have to open an account to collect funds for the trip to Delhi. Sounds simple enough. A trip to the bank is in order. No sooner do I sit down with a burly, accented man, than I find out that I am in fact applying for a small business account, and must visit the Government of Quebec Enterprise Registry. The man gives me vague directions, and a paternalistic warning that it is cold, and I should not walk there. Except for the advice of bank managers, how would I know to wear my mittens? Life is certainly bewildering for little old me.

I set off to Bleury and Sherbrooke, arrive at the intersection to find no government bureau. Do I walk North or South? I pick South, checking my watch to see that I have to be at work in about an hour. Almost a block down the street, I almost rethink my impetuous sense of direction, but remain steadfast when I spot in the distance the blue sign and white typeface of a Quebec Government institution. (The 18th Century architecture should have tipped me off, amid the neighbouring buildings which look like they were built in the uninspired, rectangular '70s.) By the way, Mr. Bank Man, sir, this is Bleury and de Maisonneuve.

I haul open the heavy glass doors (by their polished, brass handles) to find myself in a lobby. Bottles of sanitizer abound. (I know this has to do with H1N1, but I can't help reflecting on the infected proletarian masses...) I check the directory to orient myself, to find that the office I need is indicated by some apparently arbitrary letter-number code. I sigh in exasperation, and turn around to find the elevators -- and the room I seek is right in front of me, behind plate glass windows. (There are fairly common in government buildings, I have learned. I think they're supposed to represent the transparency of our wondrous system, or something to that effect. Instead, they bring to mind Foucault's notion of surveillance.)

Inside the office, I exchange words with an armed security guard. (I wonder, what do they think can possibly happen inside the Enterprise Registry? Some rogue small business owner losing it over the confounding administrative details? Hm... maybe that's not so far fetched after all.) The guard points to the nearby information desk. I approach, and give them the same information I gave to the guard. The attendant asks me if I've filled out the form. I am perplexed. I thought I came here to fill out forms. What form? Where would I get the form, if not here? And why come here at all, if I could have filled out the form elsewhere. So I await the form. Instead, I am issued a number.

I turn the corner to see what the queue situation is. The room is full. There are about twenty booths with attendants processing people, but, as always, this doesn't seem to cut it. The people look restless and confused. I look at my number, and compare it to the sign that shows who is being served. I am B93. A101 and D75 are currently being helped. So either I missed my turn, or it hasn't come up yet. I give up trying to make sense of this, and take a seat.

To pass the time, I flip open a back issue of The Economist and skim an article on diseased Dutch goats, and the emotional toll this has taken on farmers in the Netherlands. I'm not sure why I read The Economist. Sometimes I find the coverage of global issues extensive and even-handed. Sometimes the Conservative slant drives me up the wall. (More on that later, I'm sure.) Meanwhile, I check frequently (between the goat article and one on bullfighting) in case my number comes up. The D counter switches to B sometimes, so I guess I have a chance in hell after all. But it switches back, too, so B88 doesn't mean there are 5 people ahead of me. It doesn't mean much, actually. What's the point of numbers if they don't have any order? Why not assign everyone a colour, or a zoo animal? It would certainly help pass the time. I turn the page again. Oh great, an analysis of Britain's rise from the recession. This should be cautiously self-congratulatory, which a side of warning the government off socialist-type reform. But I digress. There is substance here for a whole other post.

B91. Getting close. Check my watch. I have fifteen minutes to get to work. Maybe I'll just wait it out a bit longer and run to work. B92. 10 minutes. Oh, damn it all, I don't have time for this. If I lose my job, I'll have to go to the unemployment office and do this all over again. I leave, and plan to try again on Monday. These offices are never open evenings or weekends. Of course. Because small business owners and aspiring entrepreneurs have so much free time on their hands...

You can't make this stuff up.