S.'s application to review the anthology had been neither refused, nor accepted.
Despite the many explanations offered at various times by one or another of the officials who stood behind the window at the offices of G. where he had sat, gnawing the stub of his third pencil and filling out each page of the application, S. did not truly understand why this should be so. He had, after all, gone into great and, indeed, one might almost say superfluous length about the brilliance of the anthology's theme, the perfection of its title and the perspicacity of J.K. and J.K., the editors—who were not nearly so interchangeable as their shared initials might make it appear. He had expatiated on the wealth of biographical information in the book's foreword, the rhetorical flourishes and exciting new tidbits of information that the editors had thought to include—such as the report that the original K. had, upon reading the first chapters of one of his most significant works aloud, been in stitches of helpless laughter. And regarding the range of authors and styles included, S. had, he believed, raised the art of the review to heretofore unseen peaks of excellence.
Sitting on the hard wooden chair at the office of applications for review, hour upon hour, S. had crafted what he believed to be the perfect application, or at least the best such application of which human beings might be capable. He had stacked the pages neatly, attached all additional sheets and required supplements, and included the cheque for the total of all fees, surcharges and subsidiary assessments listed on the placard to the right-hand side of the official's window. He had placed his application for review gently, even reverently, into the tray labeled for that purpose.
Since then, he had been waiting. No word had come. S. trudged weekly to and from his minuscule apartment in the great gray city—he had taken rooms close to the offices of G. so he could more easily attend to the progress of his application. Upon each visit he filled out the much shorter application to review the status of an application to review and stood in line. Each time he handed his form to the waiting official directly, as was permitted by the schedule of rules posted to the left of the window. The officials behind that window—there was a small, rotating staff—soon grew familiar with S.'s appearance and often greeted him cheerfully as he entered and availed himself of the free coffee and light pastries that were often his only meal of the day. But they were never able to tell him anything concrete about the status of his application. They would bustle behind the barred window, inquire of their superiors, fill out forms of their own, but always in the end shake their solemn heads brusquely or sorrowfully, sympathetically or with cold indifference, in the face of S.'s disappointment, occasional anger, and eventual stoic resignation...
* * * *
S. was discovered on the floor of the offices at G. one day by another applicant. Clutched in S.'s gnarled, clawed hand was a yellowed envelope, which the latest official had just that morning, in an excess of enthusiasm and initiative, discovered stuck to the bottom of a much older bin of outdated documents that were due for incineration. The front of the envelope bore the name and address of S. in his own hand, written there many years ago, and an uncancelled stamp of quaint design and nowadays insignificant denomination.
The envelope was sealed, and remained unopened.
* * * *
—1/22-28/2012, inspired by the tales in the anthology called Kafkaesque: Stories Inspired by Franz Kafka,
edited by John Kessel & James Patrick Kelly, and posted as a review on Goodreads shortly thereafter.
©2012, 2018 Alan P. Scott. All rights reserved.
Last updated October 26, 2018
Contact me:
ascott@pacifier.com