The Line

Jean-Baptiste Campignon waited not because he wanted to, but because he was told to. He supposed those in the snaking line around him waited for the same reason, but he dared not ask. It might disrupt the delicate equilibrium of the system which already moved with such practiced glaciality that any irregularity was liable to bring it to a grinding halt. No one talked, and that was fine. There was no need for talking. Jean-Baptiste preferred it that way.

Jean-Baptiste thirsted for much of his time in this particular line, and a vague awareness of hunger imposed itself on him; however, to satisfy either was plainly out of the question. To leave the line and satisfy himself involved not only the navigation of the labyrinthine passageways between here and the main lobby, which held the necessary amenities, but it also entailed losing his spot in line. Jean-Baptiste would not surrender his place in line.

It was the third such waiting room he had been in today. Or perhaps it was this week. Or year. It was hard to tell beneath the indefatigable fluorescent lights, stalwart linoleum, and bland off-white tone walls. All he knew was that time passed, and that this would not be the last room of waiting; the line stretched through a further doorway and into a subsequent room. 

When the man behind him died, and the little old lady stepped up into his place, Jean-Baptiste cursed the man that he had not been in front. He cursed the woman too - silently, of course, for he did not want to upset the line. He hated her for the way she nipped at his heels and the barely perceptible whistle of her breath.

He found it odd, in a detached sort of way, that he hated her more so than the person in front of him - just as he had hated the man whose place she took. God, was Jean-Baptiste glad of his death. Indeed, Jean-Baptiste’s scorn extended to all those behind him, but to that old woman the most. If nothing else, having something to hate helped pass the time.

A shuffling brought Jean-Baptiste back to his senses. The whole gathered mass of humanity shuddered as the line moved forward. At last, Jean-Baptiste took his step, a glorious step forward earned by patience and perseverance. Then, the woman behind him. His moment was over - back to the waiting.

By this time the line meant more to him than his destination. It had been important some time ago, but now he was invested and fiercely jealous of his position - glad to not be one of the poor bastards behind him. After all this time waiting, that was his major consolation. Indeed, he had unconsciously given up hope of ever reaching the front of the line. It may well stretch on into eternity for all he knew, but at least he was not at the end. All else be damned, he clenched that fact with all his might.

Presently, a door heretofore unnoticed to him opened on the far wall located at the midway point of the room which Jean-Baptiste was now well past. A tall Bohemian looking man with bushy eyebrows and large ears stepped out. He wore a vest indicating his status as an administrator in the clerical bureau.

“We will be starting a new line,” he announced unceremoniously. “It will begin through this door. Anyone who wishes to reduce their wait can come.”

His words rippled dully across the room. Those around Jean-Baptiste looked dumbly at one another, but he knew with certainty what he would do. There was no way he would trade the line he knew and his position in it for one unknown. As the clerk looked around and waited for someone to take him up on his offer, Jean-Baptiste’s smug self-assurance welled within.

Then, a man stepped out of line. To the clerk, he said: “Right through here?”

“Right through there.”

“I go right to the front?”

“Right to the front. No waiting.”

The man smiled. It was an infuriating smile to Jean-Baptiste.

“Thank you,” he said, and went in.

The clerk tipped his brow.

Another man followed - and another, then a woman.

A new line queued behind them at the entrance to the new room. 

Jean-Baptiste became furious. He could not even see the end of the new line now, as though all those who had been waiting behind him now belonged to the new line. Certainly those in the rooms before this one, they wouldn’t even know there were two lines waiting for them. They would simply follow the person in front of them as idiots do. He could not even join the new line himself now. It was not fair.

Jean-Baptiste strode towards the clerk.

“I’m sorry sir,” the man said upon seeing him approach, “but you’ll have to find the end of the line.”

With a howl of rage, Jean-Baptiste flew upon the clerk and seized him by the throat. He shoved the unsuspecting man backward against the wall and slammed his head against the door jamb, dazing him. The clerk had no right to do this, and Jean-Baptiste wouldn’t let him. The clerk tried to defend himself, but it was no use. Jean-Baptiste held the advantage, and with each blow the clerk shrank before him.

He took the clerk to the ground and mounted him, strangulating the man. As though his actions had awakened their sleeping sensibilities, the others who had been standing dumbly in line in front of Jean-Baptiste now turned and beheld their similar change in fortune. In twos and threes they fell upon those who dared abandon their previous places until they lie dead or quailed.

Satisfied and drained of his malice, Jean-Baptiste regained his senses. He closed the side door and returned to his place in line. The slow shuffle forward rustled through the waiters as each took one methodical step ahead. All was how it ought to be again. Jean-Baptiste wept, although he did not know why.

Hermeneutic Postscript Not To Be Included in the Word Count

Historically, systems of oppression have relied on hierarchies to mobilize the will to power of the master morality. These hierarchies have taken various forms, from the British appropriation of the Hindu caste system in colonial India to the dehumanization of the black man and woman in antebellum and the Jim Crow United States. This fact is not a universal facet of all hierarchies, but it is common amongst hierarchies of oppression. It is effective because it preys upon the psychological impulse to elevate oneself and one’s in-group at the expense of others. 

In short, members of a society are far less likely to express unrest at their situation if they feel that they are nevertheless better off than others even if their own situation is not much better. There are numerous possible psychological, sociological, and philosophical explanations for this phenomenon which I will not go into here; however, the key take-away is that this strategy of social division causes oppression to flow downward so that groups that are not presently at the bottom of the social hierarchy are more likely to participate in the oppression of groups below them than they are to recognize and rise up against the mechanisms of their own oppression.

An interesting study of lines at the supermarket provides what I think is a parallel observation. The study observed that people were less likely to leave their line by a statistically significant percentage and join a new line if there was at least one person behind them - even if the new line was clearly shorter or moving more quickly. The hypothesized conclusion proposed that the driving psychological desire was not the desire to be first or to get through the line as quickly as possible. Rather, it was the desire to not be last.

The admittedly heavy handed attempt at a vaguely Kafka-esque story is an attempt to explore these two concepts in a mash-up provided by the weekly prompt. I believe there are socially relevant connections that can be made in the abstract; however, the motivation for writing was derived from the desire to explore an artistic portrayal of concept rather than any polemical purpose. Feel free to draw your own connections, meaning, and conclusions.