Waiting for a Gruyere Like You

When I received my number, my fate was sealed. Even though I was subjected to this ritual weekly, it never got easier to stem the anxiety rising in my chest. My legs were already tired enough from waiting in line to get my number in the first place, and the pink scrap of paper between my fingers became heavier with each agonizing minute. 57, it blared in red numbers. They were bold for added measure, as if anyone with these slips wouldn’t have committed the number to memory immediately.

Nothing to do after you were chosen but wait. I suppose when you wait for something like this, where the order of people chosen is predetermined, you could leave temporarily if you know your number isn’t due to be called yet. There was definitely space to mill about here, but I always decided that wandering the maze surrounding us was too much of a risk. Better to get this over as soon as I could so I’d have time to explore later. Besides, if you didn’t hear them call your number, your day almost always got much worse. And I hated navigating the strange wheeled contraptions and the loud machines hiding in the maze.

I shuddered involuntarily to think of those who received their slips and immediately left the counter, not bothering to figure out whose number was up next and hoping the heard the disembodied voice call them from their wandering. Or those who discarded their slips accidentally. I noted the pink scraps littering the grimy tile floor beneath my feet, curled inwards like dead rose petals.

To pass time, I liked to watch the weary souls like me try not to fidget or check their phones. Everything in the dim, industrial light was gray. Gray hair, eyes, clothes. It was never surprising, though. Nobody who woke up at dawn for something like this would look put together. We were all stuck in this liminal space, and we had to weather it as a group, regardless of if we wanted to or not. Although some of my forced companions today were more anxious than others—the man behind me had all but chewed off his fingertips by the time I looked at him. Since many of us were required to face our fates here every week, I had begun to find familiar faces in the crowd around me. I recognized a father and child standing off to the side, unsmiling and holding hands. The father gripped the slip so tightly I worried it would tear. I wished for a moment that I didn’t come here alone; I’d left Amy at home. Forcing my sister to deal with this punishment was cruel, though, and even if I was stressed, I knew I’d done the right thing.

While admiring the fuzzy flip flops of the woman to my left, (such a great choice of footwear—I wondered where she’d got them) I faintly heard the voice behind the counter call out the next unlucky soul. 55. I gripped my belongings a little tighter and felt my heart speed up. I began to worry if I had enough supplies and did a quick survey of everything in the basket I carried. Bread, water, Oreos. A couple of cans of soup just in case, and my favorite, a king-sized bag of Skittles. Everything I would need to survive after my number was called. My other fist clenched around the slip and it crumpled, but I didn’t dare drop it into the floor with the others. Wait, what number was I again? Un-crinkling the paper, the angry 57 was hard to miss. I sighed in relief—I hadn’t missed my turn.

55 was almost done discussing her fate in hushed tones with the shadowy figure behind the counter. She was a young woman with gray eyes, hair, jeans. I vaguely recognized her—perhaps she’d been here last week? Honestly, though, who knows? The weeks were blurring together as the dreary April weather outside continued. I began to shiver in the strong air conditioner. Although the cold rain was still visible in the hair of a few people around me, the AC was on full blast in here. I took a deep breath but smelled only the tragically recognizable scent of burnt meat, which was about as comforting as a blanket made of steel wool. I studied the old slips on the floor and tried to calm my rising anxiety.

“56,” the figure called as the young woman stepped away looking distraught. I tried to catch her eye and make a sympathetic face but she was quickly lost behind the others waiting with me at the counter. I looked around for 56 and saw the number belonged to the man with no more fingernails. Similarly gray, he shuffled to take her place. When he reached the counter, he spoke in a low whisper to the shadow lurking there, who rolled his eyes. Not a good sign for me. I was on deck.

I opened my pink slip again and tried to distract myself by smoothing the paper even though it could never be fixed. 57. 57. 57. The red numbers began to bleed into the pink paper as I reread the number in time with my now-erratic heartbeat while the sounds of murmured conversation and the wheeled contraptions continued all around me. Dazed, I closed my eyes and counted seconds until I heard the voice speak again.

“57, you’re up next.”

With my supply basket shaking in my hand, I approached the counter and tried to muster a smile to the figure. He was clad in all black with the exception of a white apron with sketchy red stains around the hem. He sighed at me, and with a glance at his watch (which read 8:56, I noted) his words confirmed my fate:

“Our specials today are honey-glazed ham and buffalo turkey, both sliced and available by the quarter pound. Just so you know, the gentleman before you bought the last of the Swiss—we haven’t gotten a shipment yet today, so if you were planning on getting some, I’d suggest you either buy prepackaged over in the dairy aisle or wait until later. We’ll start selling the rotisseries at 9. Now, what’ll it be for you today?”

No Swiss? Goddamn it. I hated going to the supermarket deli.