The lusty disconnect of waiting

The scores of people waiting in line didn't exactly know why.

There were murmurs about the truth and beauty at the end. Mostly whispers. Stories passed from one person to the next. Arguably from the front to the back, though who could be sure?

For some reason, he was reminded of the Kafka story. A man tries to get through a door his entire life. When he dies, never having gained entry, the door is closed. “Here no one else can gain entry, since this entrance was assigned only to you. I’m going now to close it.”

This line, though, is moving. Mechanically, he counts the number of steps. Three steps forward after 30 seconds. Five steps after 22 seconds. One step after another minute. Seven steps after three seconds. The pattern then repeats.

At first, he'd ask the people around him if he was in the right line. Mostly, no one was ever sure. And he didn't know whether to trust the few that were.

He spent some days trying to understand the pattern of the movement. 3-30. 5-22. 1-60. 7-3. Other days, he'd get frustrated by the slow pace of the line. Or by the man in front of him with the fat stomach. (The man would get so involved moralizing about some unimportant nonsense that he’d hold up the line.)

Occasionally he dreams about what he’ll do when he gets to the front of the line. When he doesn’t have to wait anymore. There was something great waiting at the front of the line. Perhaps.

But perhaps not.