Where the bureaucrosaurus rules

 The office was located in the back of the beyond. It was well hidden, except for the well worn paint that said, customer service, 20 years ago. 

I walked up. A sheet of paper directed me to the left. Inside was a thoroughly disinterested bureaucrat. She had arrived royally at 10:45, just 45 minutes late. 

She had the expression of a circus tiger who was a looking at you - puny human in the audience- with derision. The facial expression read, growl. 

The desk was an old table. The table would have seen glory days with mounds of files on them and tea served by a bearer, alas - today it is saddled with two desktops on it, yes two - the big visible change from the olden days. This would have been a typewriter, but it was not. Other than that there were registers (notebooks). There was a a chair with torn mesh. A stool with a few loose forms. The place was dinghy, almost dystopian. And the landline rang. 

The bureaucract derisively picked up the phone, mumbled a few hmm, ok and put it back. 

For the minions who had queries, she answered them slowly. At her own time. With a mild scorn. No politeness, lest that be construed as service. She wasnt there to serve, she was there too bide time. Work? who works? 

Above all, it was the derision. Not a hint of customer service. Just thorough complete disdain, the way the termite shooter would look at termites. Or the rat hunter would look at dead rats. 

On the bright side, these offices can never be hacked. Who can hack notebooks? The desktop had to be swatted to work. There was other high tech equipment like biometric reader and camera and a white screen held in place from swinging in the droll ceiling fan with a bat. And a stool. And a camera taped with cello tape to an inoperational monitor. The operating system was decisively from the 80s. 

Yes, this is our Jurassic park. Where the bureaucosaurus rule. Government offices, circa 2025.

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