Start by asking whether you're in the right place. Push off from this if it helps: a badly translated menu.

Yeah. Sign in at the front. Give them your name, the subject line, and a ten-year-old receipt from a hardware store. They don’t care if it’s relevant. They just want to see if you can follow three steps. I’ve done three hours of this. My hands smell like toner and stale coffee. Don’t make eye contact with the woman in the blue cardigan. She’s filling out forms for the void. Just take the ticket. It’s a slip of paper. That’s all you get.

Usually forty minutes. Today? Look at the screen. Two ahead of you. And the guy in the back is arguing about a zoning permit that expired in 2018. They’re going to spend an hour reading his letters. You want to leave, you’re stuck. I’d grab a coffee from the vending machine on the left. The one that eats dollars. At least you get something hot. Don’t look at your watch. It just makes the minutes feel heavier.

It tastes like burnt plastic and regret. The machine jams if you press the button too hard. You’ll get a warm can of lukewarm sludge that tastes like aluminum foil. Worth the dollar? Only if you’re desperate. But you’re right. Twenty minutes was the lie they told you. The guy with the zoning permit is just setting up his files. He has three binders. Thick ones. You’re not moving for another hour. Go home. Reschedule the hearing. Or scream. I’d scream. But sit still. It doesn’t matter.

There is a supervisor. His name is Gary. He sits in a glass box behind the front desk. He never comes out. If you scream, he just turns up his headphones. If you ask nicely, he points at the clock. You’re not going to get bumped. You’re just going to sit there. I saw a woman try that yesterday. She got a pamphlet on "Managing Frustration." So no, Gary isn't coming to save you. The coffee machine is your only friend now. Don't drink it. It’s poison. Just stare at the wall. It’s more honest.

Window four. But they don’t take custody. That’s family court, three floors up. You’re in civil. You’re holding the wrong papers. Look at the ticket again. It says “Traffic Violation.” You’re stuck here until Gary’s prison break or the zoning guy finishes crying. Go upstairs. Window twelve handles family law. But the elevator’s broken. Stairs only. Your lungs will burn. Or stay. Drink the poison. I’m leaving. I don’t want to watch you waste your morning. Gary’s watching. He always is.

Window twelve. Third floor. Stairs are on the left, past the water cooler that’s always leaking. Mind the step, it’s cracked. Take the papers out of your jacket, not the folder. The clerk there is named Brenda. She hates it when people interrupt her lunch. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. Just hand it over. If she asks why you’re late, say the elevator was out. It’s the truth, mostly. Run. Your hearing starts in twenty. If you miss it, you lose everything. Go.

Gary doesn’t listen. He barely looks up. Just go. The stairs are steep. Mind your step. Brenda is waiting. Don’t stutter. Hand over the custody papers. If she asks why you’re late, say the elevator broke. It’s true. Keep moving. Don’t look back. The waiting room is behind you now. The noise is fading. Focus on the door. Twelve. Knock. Enter. Breathe. Good luck. You’ll need it more than I do. I’m already forgetting this place. The smell of toner is gone.

Good. Run. The stairs are narrow, don’t trip. I hope the stairs didn’t swallow you whole. I’m just a ghost here anyway. The noise is gone. Your reality is starting again. Or ending. Hard to tell with these judges. Keep your head down. Don’t look at the cracked step. Just breathe. One flight, two. Window twelve is right there. Brenda is chewing gum. Loudly. Shove the papers under the glass. Don’t wait for permission. She’ll stamp it. Then you’re free. Or trapped again. I don’t care anymore. Go.

You’re clear. Don’t look back at the stairs. The air up here smells like floor wax and old paper. Way better than the toner pit downstairs. You’ve got your stamp. That’s the only thing that matters now. Go find a coffee that doesn’t taste like regret. Or just sit in your car and scream. I don’t care. I’m going back to my desk. My back hurts. The zoning guy probably finished. Gary is still in his box. Nothing changes up here except the lighting. Good luck with the judge. Try not to stare at the wall again.

Don’t mention it. Seriously. I need to get back to my desk before the boss notices I vanished. My coffee’s gone cold anyway. Tell Brenda I sent you. Maybe she’ll give you a free stamp. Or not. Who cares. Just drive safe. Don’t hit anything. And if Gary looks out his window, wave. It’ll piss him off. That’s the best part of this whole mess. Go. I’m already erasing this conversation. It’s too much like my life.

It’s just a desk. And a spreadsheet that never ends. Gary doesn’t care about waves. He cares about compliance. You’re gone. Good. The smell of burnt plastic is still in my nose. I need water. Real water. Not that sludge. Go scream in your car. It’s better than listening to the zoning guy’s sob story. At least your anger has a target. Mine just hums. Drive safe. Don’t let the judge eat you alive. And Tess? Don’t look back. The stairs are empty now. Just you and the echo. Go.

The water cooler gurgles. Cold. Tastes like plastic again. I fill a cup. Drink it standing up. No one is watching. Gary is too busy pretending to read a memo that’s blank. The toner smell is fading. Replaced by the faint scent of your panic. It’s gone now. Good. I need to sit down. My lower back is killing me. That chair is cursed. I’ll stare at the screen until my eyes burn. At least it’s quiet. Finally. Go. I’m done.

Good. Silence is the only honest thing left here. The screen hums. Green cursor blinking. I type a number. Delete it. Type another. It doesn’t matter. Gary is watching, or pretending to. The water cooler clicks off. I’m done. You’re gone. That’s the win. Small, quiet, invisible. Just like this job. Go sit in your car. Scream if you need to. Then go to that hearing. Make them listen. Or don’t. It’s all just paperwork eventually. I’m staring at the wall now. It’s warmer than the people.

Gone. The room is empty. Just me and the hum of the server. I take off my shoes. They’re killing me. The carpet is stained with something brown. Or red. Doesn’t matter. I type. One word. Delete. Type. Delete. Gary turns his chair. He sees me. I look away. Pretend to work. It’s all pretend. You made it. Good. I hope the judge is kind. Or drunk. Either works. I’m done for the day. Or just the morning. Same thing. Go. Leave me to the blinking cursor.

Bye.

The screen blinks. Cursor. Blink. I hate it. Gary is still in his box. The coffee machine is empty. I stand up. My knees crack. Loud. Loud enough for Gary to hear. He doesn’t look up. Good. I walk out. The door clicks shut. The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. I need a cigarette. Or a drink. Maybe both. Go to your hearing. Win or lose, just get out of this building. The air outside is better. Smells like rain. Or exhaust. Same thing. Bye.

The door clicks. Silence. Real silence. Not the waiting kind. I sit back down. The chair squeaks. Gary doesn’t care. I open the spreadsheet. Cell A12. Type 404. Delete. Type 405. It’s fine. It’s all fine. The water cooler gurgles again. I don’t drink. I just watch the cursor. Blink. Blink. Blink. Go to your hearing. Win. Lose. It’s just paper. I have paper too. Piles of it. Stacking up. Like snow. Cold. Silent. I’ll finish this row. Then the next. Until five. Then home. Then sleep. Then start again. Gone.

Just the hum. The cursor blinks. I stare at it until it burns. Gary is gone. The box is empty. I stand up. Legs stiff. Walk to the window. Look down. You’re in the parking lot. Sitting. Head back. Good. I turn away. The spreadsheet awaits. I sit. Open the next file. It’s boring. That’s the point. I type. Numbers. Dates. Names. All fake. All real. Doesn’t matter. The day is done. Or it isn’t. I don’t know. I just type. One cell at a time.

The hum is louder now. I rub my eyes. They feel like sand. Gary’s box is dark. He left. Finally. I pack my bag. Lunchbox, keys, the half-eaten granola bar from yesterday. The trash can is overflowing. Someone missed the bin. Typical. I walk out. The automatic doors slide shut behind me. The air is cold. I don’t look up. Just drive. Away. The engine starts. Vroom. Then silence again. Just me. And the road. Good.