REQUISITION 
 
© Bruce G. Marcot
 

It was a menial job, a demeaning job, tending the boilers and the steam vents and the water mains. The city needed it done, and for a paltry paycheck he worked alone in the grime and the dimness of the subfloors.

He dreamed big, while replacing pipe segments. He dreamed bold, while patching the ventilation shafts. He dreamed of being respected and, yes, even a little feared.

One day, as he placed yet another order for the usually scantly-provided supplies of duct tape and plumber's caulk and lubricant, in a flash of sardonic frustration he filled out a second service requisition ... this one for "power and authority." In a few days he received the tape and caulk and lubricant, and forgot all about the second requisition ...

... until one evening, working late among the tangled pipework of the sub-basement, he heard the far door creak open and a small shaft of light play down the long stairs, and into the light stepped a strange apparition, more shadow than form.

It spoke.

And said it was from "the company" to grant his service requisition.

And then it stepped back through the door frame, the door closed, and all that was heard was the steam pressure valves and pipes flushing water.

He dropped his tools and a feeling of immense pride suddenly enveloped him. No, not pride, it was primacy, a feeling of long-due entitlement, even grandness.

The following day he arrived at work but did not enter the service elevator. Instead, he took the regular elevator, up, to the floor with offices, and strode to the center of the work space there, and announced with a volume to fill the corners of the building that he had arrived, that they shall be commanded to become his dominions and that they shall from henceforth be banished to his servitude!  They will serve! 

And suddenly the room darkened, and the ceiling appeared to lower itself, twisting in on him.

He found himself sprawled onto a grimy floor. He slowly rose to this shaky feet, unclear what just happened. And looked up.

The walls climbed away from him to dizzying heights. He was in the pit of an endlessly deep quarry, an immense dim canyon of thousands of vertical shafts and unending mazes of pipework. On the ground before him was a paper, a form, his signature clear and prominent, the header reading Service Requisition. Then he saw the name tag now affixed permanently onto his overalls, and it read "To Serve."

  

Back to the Two Minute Tales Page
Back to The Plexus Home Page