Becoming Something Else

I've been sitting in this waiting room for 4 hours, 20 minutes, and 29 seconds. 30 seconds. 31. They won't let me go until I answer.

I looked down at the paper and the words were still blurring as they have been since midnight. I've read, reread, and reread the one Question over and over again, but still have not come up with an answer. I know what's going to happen when I put that pencil to the paper. Yes, pencil and paper. Ever since the Fall of the Mid Century, all technology has been controlled by the Great Government.

Oh, I've also been 18 years old for 4 hours, 20 minutes, and 35 seconds.

Since we've been old enough to listen, we've been told about this Question, and how we should prepare and conteplate our answer for 18 years before we sit down and answer it. 18 years later, and I still don't have an answer. I'm not one to answer it right away as other peope have, and I'm not one to have instant gratification either.

Maybe a break from thinking about it will give me some sort of phenomenon. So, I look around. This high walled waiting room with a hundred chairs has experienced thousands of people go in and out. There's a door at the front of the room with the word “Management” in a grim font. No windows to see the early morning stars. Nothing to signify time of day except for a small clock on the perpendicular wall that is moving in slow motion. No personality. Just pristine white walls, a pristine white floor, and a hundred or so chairs facing the Management door. And two doors in the back which I entered in from, that have stayed shut since.

At midnight when we all lined up to be in this dreary room, I've watched couples embrace for longer than they should, I've watched families cry for their loved ones, I've seen people laugh with joy, I've seen people of all shapes and sizes that I've never seen before. All here to answer the same Question. My parents and younger brother hugged me and cried and kissed my cheeks and hugged me again, reassured me that I will make the right decision, held my hands, and cried some more knowing that they will see me successful in the Upper Level whatever I put as an answer. The doors closed as my parents were still waving and crying. And I just realized I don't know when I will see them again.

I feel my bottom lip quiver thinking about my parents. So, I put the blank paper and Ticonderoga on the seat next to me, set my feet up on the chair, rest my chin on my knees, and watch everyone around me. Well, more like study everyone around me.

A brunette girl with a shirt too small for her top half has been sitting a couple of chairs across from me. She's been here as long as I have; I'm sure she's been contemplating it too, just with more tears. It seems like every fifteen minutes, it's the same routine- a couple tears, wipe away already-cried mascara, deep breath, look at the paper, sigh, a couple tears, wipe away, deep breath.... I can feel myself mesmorized by this cycle. I wonder what she's going to put. She sees me look at her and a small smile cracks. I'm already looking at the next person before the eye contact.

There's a larger man who has been pacing two corners of the room for 4 hours, 22 minutes, and 5 seconds. How he's been walking that long, I don't know. Tik, tik, tik of his teeth biting his fingernails is more prominent now that I'm looking straight at him. Gross. A little on the greasier side, like he hasn't showered in a couple of days. Honestly, I don't blame him. If I didn't have parents that squeeze the life out of me whenever they hug me, I wouldn't shower either. He doesn't even look 18.

There's another male with perfectly quaffed hair that's sitting here, whom I haven't noticed since now. He's wearing a suit that fits a little too snug for his tiny toothpick legs and looks freshly ironed. Which is weird, because we've all been sitting here the same amount of time. It looks like he's sleeping, but as I look closer, I can see that his eyes are just studying that paper like he's trying to light it on fire with mindpowers. He's not moving around enough for me to be interested in what he's going to do next.

I scan around the room - the four of us are the only ones left. I honestly thought that there were more people here because it was packed when I got here at midnight. I guess I was looking at that paper for longer than I realized.

I look down again, and study me this time. I wonder what Greasy Man, Tube Top Lady, and Ironed Man think of me- my white shoes that have been stained with dirt over time, holes in the jeans that may have been intentional, and the gray hoodie that I wear way too much. There's nothing that stands out about me- I don't wear glasses, I'm not wearing jewelry, and my hair is pulled back only to get it out of my eyes.

I think I look fine, I guess. But, that's the point of this whole Question:

How Are You Going to Change Yourself?

Sounds quite simple, right. But, when you know what's going to happen afterwards, this question is harder than it seems. Everyone's had things that they've wanted to change about themselves, who doesn't?

I remember my friends and I talking about this day when we were younger. When we were toddlers, my best friend Ava and I had the obvious toddler answers: "I wanna have superpowers!", "I wanna have scales!", "I wanna fly!" And then go on this extravegant story about how we would be successful in life with scales.... Teenage years brought more adolescent answers: "I wanna have a smaller stomach, smaller legs, bigger boobs" (Because all those lead to success, huh?). Now that we turned 18 and apparently are old enough to make decisions, I have no answer. Nothing.

Has anyone left it blank? Should I? ...

Ava didn't.

Ava's long gone from me anyway, I haven't talked to her in over a year. She hit her 18th birthday last year and has been a Bionic since. She asked for access to a medical dictionary in her brain, classic Ava. She's always been smarter than me anyway, but I guess she just wanted to be even smarter. I heard she's been a successful doctor in the Upper Level, which makes sense.

I've been stuck in the Lower Level for 18 years, 4 hours, and 46 minutes. I wonder if anyone just answers whatever they want to get out of the Lower Level as soon as possible. We aren't allowed to interact with the anyone over us, which is why I haven't talked to Ava. We can only interact with people in our Circles: immediate family, classmates, coworkers. People in the Upper Level often disappear because they choose a different social Circle. I understand the complexity of this Government web because my parents were patient enough to explain it to my younger brother and I every year for 18 years ... I wish I could go back home and hug all of them again.

Looks like Tube Top Lady answered. She stands up, fixes her shirt, thank goodness, and doesn't break her aggressive stare at the paper in both of her hands as she walks to the Management door. As her hand is up to knock, the door opens and a man in an all white four piece suit ushers her behind the door. We are being watched, and he knew that she answered the Question probably as soon as she stood up. I bet one of these walls is a one-way window. Which one? I look around the room.

Just me, Greasy Man, and Ironed Man left. We all look at eachother, and this time I don't avoid the eye contact. Ironed Man looks way nervous than before, if that was possible. I put my feet back on the floor and take a deep breath.

How Are You Going to Change Yourself?

We are given this great opportunity to change ANYTHING about ourselves. C'mon, think. I want to get out of this room.

Tik, tik, tik, tik. Is that the clock or the fingernails?

5 hours.

How can someone just have one thing? I've looked in the mirror a plethora of times and wanted to change my nose to be dainter, my hair to be thicker, my waist to be smaller, my teeth to be straighter. But anything- as long as it's ONE thing and one thing only. I heard about a dancer who implanted a semisonic plate in her arm to feel the vibrations of the earth as she dances. I heard about a science teacher who has plastic webbing in his fingers and uses it to make interactive scupltures for his kindergarten classes. I heard about a singer who has devices implanted in her voicebox to imitate any instrument with perfect pitch. I heard about a pregnant woman who has an ultrasound built into her fingers and brain and works as a traveling midwife. All succesful Bionics. But I'm not a dancer or a teacher or a singer, nor am I pregnant.

How Are You Going to Change Yourself?

I tap the pencil against my chin, squish an ant with my foot, and look at the clock on the wall.

5 hours, 3 minutes, and 4 seconds.

[continued in Chapter 2]