“I refuse to be ignored!” I shout at the clerk behind the glass. He doesn’t look up. I slam my hand down; it hurts. The clerk glances at my hand and goes back to what he was doing.

“Didja hear me!” I yell, no, I shriek. I put my face up against the tiny gap where you slide paperwork through. “I won’t be ignored!”

The clerk’s manager appears from a back room, smoothing his oiled black hair with one hand. At last. Some damn service around here. It’s about time.

“Is there a problem, Smith?” the manager says.

“Your clerk won’t fill my request,” I say, face still pressed to the slot.

“No sir, no problem at all,” the clerk says.

“Oh,” the manager replies, “then carry on.” The manager begins walking away.

“He acts like I’m not even here,” I plead at his back. He turns.

“Oh, Smith, by the way, you can take your break in fifteen,” he says, and walks away.

I turn to face the others in line. “What is wrong with this place?” I say in supplication. They all look around, anywhere but directly in front of them.