The All-Bureaucracy Doula
“So, you’re saying I’m too self-centered?”
“No,” answered the triad. “We are saying that you think you are too self-centered.”
“Which is making you feel guilty,” added the triad in a different, more gravelly voice.
“Guilt is a negative emotion,” stated the triad’s third, highest pitched voice. “You must begin working to eliminate it.”
Susan stared at her computer, pushing a bleached-blond curl behind her ear and pondering her cyber-therapist’s words. She was on the fast track to becoming partner at her law firm. She could not afford to be anything less than driven and enthused twenty-four-seven. This had to be fixed. SHE needed to be fixed.
“So, what should I do?”
“Make a change,” said the gravelly voice.
“Do something that will alleviate your guilt,” suggested the first voice.
“Perform more outwardly directed activities,” said the highest-pitched voice.
“And the triad is unanimous in this?” Susan asked, reaching for her cup. She had never known the three overlaid A.I. entities comprising her therapy-triad to disagree, but, according to online comments, they sometimes did.
“Yes,” answered all three voices simultaneously.
Susan sipped her tea, her eyes wandering over her trophy shelves. She had spent her entire life focused on the future—studying for the upcoming test, preparing for the approaching deposition, rehearsing for the next oral argument. The words of an elderly colleague, since retired, came back to her… The future is important to prepare for, she had said, but the future is not where memories are made.
“What do you recommend?” she asked the A.I. triad.
“You could do volunteer work,” suggested the gravelly voice.
“Or, do something special for your parents,” said the first voice.
“Or, start a family of your own,” proposed the highest-pitched voice.
Susan almost choked on her tea. “I think I’ll go with the volunteer work.”
*** *** ***
After considering various volunteer jobs she could do outside of the pro bono work she was already expected to do at the law firm, Susan settled on becoming an unpaid All-Bureaucracy doula for the underprivileged.
During her through research, she learned that the All-Bureaucracy—with its vast amounts of forms, procedures, terms, contracts, and waivers—had become overwhelming to a large portion of the population. They needed the assistance of bureaucracy counselors just to get through a typical day. They needed doulas.
The situation reminded her of her legal-history courses in college. Over time, society’s rules, procedures, and legal precedents had grown too numerous and complex for the common person to handle adeptly. So, lawyers had taken over the legal realm, from there on out writing laws that only other lawyers could understand and adopting legal procedures that only other lawyers knew much about.
Susan realized for the first time that the rest of society had now become just as complicated as the law had been back when lawyers had started proliferating. People were no longer qualified to run their own lives. They needed the All-Bureaucracy doula.
*** *** ***
She found Big John leaning against his large, black pickup truck outside the apartment building where she had asked him to meet her.
“Thanks for coming, Big John,” she said. “The P.T.D. machine’s in the trunk.”
“I figure I owe you a few favors,” said Big John, opening the trunk of Susan’s car and hefting the clunky machine onto a wide shoulder.
Waiting for the elevator on a ground floor utterly devoid of furniture or decoration except for one dusty, artificial fern collapsing in a corner, Big John turned to Susan.
“You sure want to go to work as a Mazie battler?” he asked. “I’d rather drink metal shavings than wrestle with the All-Bureaucracy.”
Susan gazed up at her colleague. He was tall, wide, and beardy—pretty much the walking definition of burly. He wasn’t fat, but he was by no means thin, and although he did not work out, she had learned long ago that he was very strong. If he had possessed a better work ethic and tougher mindset, he would certainly have been recruited by coaches for several sports in his youth. And he seemed twice the size now that he had been in college.
“Don’t you think maybe you chose the wrong profession if you don’t like dealing with bureaucracy?” she asked as they stepped into the lift. “We’re attorneys. We depend upon the labyrinthine bureaucracy and its maze of rules to pay the bills.”
*** *** ***
A slow elevator ride later, Susan and Big John were traipsing down a narrow, dimly lit hallway on the hunt for the apartment number Susan had been given by the government agency sponsoring the All-Bureaucracy doula program.
“So,” said Big John, switching the P.T.D. machine from one shoulder to the other, “what exactly is it that we’re doing to improve the world today?”
“Today, for the next few hours, we are officially government bureaucrats.”
“I’m not sure you understood my question.”
“We have been deputized by our government to help…” Susan looked down at her phone, “…Mister Cardiff hurdle bureaucratic red-tape and jump through procedural hoops so that he can see a doctor about his health condition.”
“What’s his condition?”
“I have no idea.” Susan stopped in front of a door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Health information is private. We’re just here to facilitate his movement through the system.”
“Deal with Mazie, you mean.”
“Please don’t use that name,” said Susan, gesturing with her eyes at the camera at the end of the corridor. “It’s derogatory.”
Big John rotated his bulk and saw the camera, then turned back to Susan. “Got it,” he said with a nod and a wink before adding in an overly loud voice. “I actually love the All-Bureaucracy, and I know you do to!”
The apartment door opened, and a short, wrinkled old man with hunched shoulders stood in a terrycloth bathrobe blinking at them.
Susan cleared her throat. “Greetings, distressed citizen. I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.”
*** *** ***
A full minute passed before Cardiff recovered from his laughing fit.
“This is worse than I thought,” Susan whispered to Big John.
“Yeah,” murmured Big John through his beard, “a fully healthy man would have laughed at lot longer at that joke. Good one.”
Susan elbowed the hard gut protruding at her side and cleared her throat. “Mister Cardiff, social services has assigned me to your case.”
“My case?” said Cardiff.
“May we come in, please?”
Cardiff shuffled his bare feet a few paces back.
Ducking to get the P.T.D. machine through the doorway, Big John followed Susan inside and closed the door behind them with his free hand.
Susan tried to ignore the disorderly state of the apartment and the unpleasant smell attacking her nostrils. “Mister Cardiff, my name is Susan, and I’ve been deputized to act as your All-Bureaucracy doula.”
“All-Bureaucracy? You mean Mazie?”
“I would not call her that to her face,” warned Big John, pointing toward Susan’s phone. “And her face is everywhere.”
He grinned at Susan. She was sure he was mocking her earlier caution.
“Bureaucracy doesn’t have a face,” grumbled Cardiff. “That’s the problem.”
“Amen, brother,” said Big John, opening a hand for low-five at his hip.
Wearing a confused and apprehensive look on his wizened face, Cardiff reluctantly touched the tips of his fingers against Big John’s wide palm, then rapidly drew back his hand.
Susan was beginning to second-guess her decision to bring along her friend. “Mister Cardiff, I’m excited to be part of a pilot program the government is offering designed to help people such as yourself who are, shall we say, bureaucratically challenged.”
“Who isn’t challenged by the bureaucracy?” asked Cardiff before turning quickly, his robe whipping around and displaying far too much hairy leg for Susan’s empty stomach.
Big John leaned down toward his colleague’s ear. “Looks like they threw you in at the deep end on this one.”
Susan pushed him away. Rather, she attempted to push him away but was unable to budge his large frame. Nevertheless, he got the message and straightened up.
She turned to Cardiff. “Mister Cardiff, I’m going to help you successfully navigate the system today so that you may visit the doctor. I’m on your side in this from start to finish. I will be acting as your — and only your — advocate throughout the entire process.”
“Great. Start by filling out the insurance forms for me.”
“Tisk, tisk, Mister Cardiff. It’s not that easy.”
“Of course, it’s not that easy. If it were that easy, I wouldn’t need a Mazie babysitter.”
“He’s got you there,” said Big John. He adjusted the weight of the P.T.D. machine on his shoulder. “Can I set this thing down somewhere?”
“Oh, sorry.” Susan pointed to a corner. “Set it up there, please, Big John.”
Cardiff stood from his chair. “Hey! You can’t just bring things into my home and start unloading them.”
“Actually, legally, we can,” said Susan while helping Big John steady the machine.
“Oh,” said Cardiff, returning to his chair. He was accustomed to being uncertain of his rights.
Susan took out her phone and began flipping her finger across its screen. “Before we can do anything, Mister Cardiff, we first have to administer a P.T.D. exam.”
“A what?”
Susan readjusted the eye of the machine while Big John stabilized its extendable legs. “A psychological trauma detection examination. It’s like an emotional blacklight. It penetrates your brain with scanner rays that read your aura, then it displays your emotional scars on a screen where they can be read.”
Cardiff scrutinized the screen Susan was attempting to make stick to one of the oily walls. “You’re gonna need a bigger screen.”
“Just hold still, please, Mister Cardiff,” said Susan, stepping behind the machine. “Big John, would you hit the lights, please?”
Big John reached out a long arm and flipped off the light switch.
“But I’m experiencing pains in my chest not my head,” protested Cardiff, pressing himself into the back of his chair.
Susan aimed the eye of the machine directly at Cardiff’s forehead for half a minute precisely. Then a light flashed green, and she turned it off.
“All done,” she said cheerfully. “Now, let’s see what we have.”
She flipped a switch on the machine and a large square of white light shone upon the screen hung crookedly against the wall. Within the square of light, dark forms began to materialize.
“What—what are those?” asked Mr. Cardiff, restanding from his chair.
“Is it just me or does that one look like a knife dripping blood?” asked Big John, pointing a large finger at one of the emerging shadows.
“Shh!” ordered Susan, scrolling quickly through an image dictionary on her phone.
“Is that a tumor?” asked Cardiff.
“Only an emotional one,” Big John reassured him.
“Aha!” barked Susan, causing both men to turn to her. “Mister Cardiff, would it be true to say that you are living under a crushing amount of debt?”
“Isn’t everyone?”
“I knew it!” Susan angled her phone so Big John could see its screen. “One of the shapes on the wall matches the crushing debt symbol almost exactly.”
“I’m more worried about the murderous knife symbol,” replied Big John.
“Oh yes, let’s analyze that one!” said Susan, excited to have figured out the image dictionary. She began scrolling through more images. She looked up. “Mister Cardiff, have you perchance had a frustrating experience with government bureaucracy within the last few years?”
“Aw Hell, Susan,” said Big John. “Anyone would answer yes to that one.”
“Actually, I did,” said Cardiff thoughtfully. “I lost my social security card. It took me a year of phone calls and filling out forms, plus two blood samples and a dental x-ray to get a replacement.”
Big John continued examining the images on the screen. “So, when he was dealing with the government about his social security card… that’s when the bloody knife popped into his subconscious?”
“It wasn’t just in my SUBconscious, pal,” snarled Cardiff.
Susan’s eyes moved back and forth from her phone to the third of the largest images on the screen. “And within the last few years,” she began, “did dealing with one of the utility companies make you crazy with frustration?”
“Possibly,” answered Cardiff. “I may have been crazy before.”
Susan shut off the projection. “Lights please, Big John.”
Big John hit the switch, and the clutter and grime of the apartment was re-illuminated.
“Well, we certainly have our work cut out for us, Mister Cardiff,” said Susan, peeling the screen from the wall.
“I’ve never really understood that expression,” responded Cardiff. “If we have our work cut out for us, does that mean it’s going to be easy or difficult?”
“Yeah…” said Big John. “If your work’s been cut out for you, does that mean there’s no more work left to do? That there’s just, like, a hole where the work once was?”
Susan was too busy perusing the information the P.T.D. machine had transferred to her phone to pay attention to the men’s musings. “Mister Cardiff, according to your test results, your pent-up antagonism toward the All-Bureaucracy is off the charts.”
“I could have told you that before you shot my brain with invisible lasers.”
“So, before we allow you anywhere near a node of the All-Bureaucracy,” Susan continued, “we must conduct a deep frustration-cleansing of your psyche.”
Cardiff backed away. “I… don’t think I want that.”
Susan frowned at him. “If you tried to go out there and face the system in your current state of mind, Mister Cardiff, all your efforts would backfire and you would wind up more frustrated than ever and worsening your overall situation.”
“You mean, that’s not what’s supposed to happen when you deal with Mazie?”
“As your government-assigned All-Bureaucracy doula, I must insist that we run you through the full gamut of bureaucracy primers. Remember, Mister Cardiff, you won’t be facing just any old sub-bureaucracy out there. You’ll be facing the HEALTHCARE sub-bureaucracy, one of the most tentacled, infuriating, soul-crushing sections of the All-Bureaucracy.”
“Maybe I’ll reschedule.”
“Let’s start with some exercises on the filling out of forms,” said Susan. “Then we’ll move on to role-playing your interactions with staff.”
*** *** ***
“You’re lucky we found you when we did, Mister Cardiff,” said Susan a few hours later as they bounced and swayed in the cab of Big John’s pickup truck.
“Am I?” responded Cardiff. He was now dressed in pants and a buttoned-down shirt and sat wedged between his doula and her burly colleague.
“Attempting to represent yourself before the All-Bureaucracy is like trying to cut your own hair. There’s a chance it will come out alright, but it’s more likely to be a fiasco.”
“I cut MY own hair,” said Big John.
“I rest my case.”
“You’re right,” admitted Cardiff despondently. “I’m like a deer in headlights in front of Mazie. I don’t know what my options are or what protections I should be invoking. I probably have rights I’ve never even heard of.”
“It’s like pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and you’re the donkey,” said Big John, whipping his truck into the medical facility’s lot and snatching away the parking stub spit out at him by the machine at the gate. “They’re coming at you with little pointy things all time. Sign this consent agreement! That privacy notice! Sign this twelve-page contract! And that auto-bank-draft agreement!” Big John swung them into a parking space and slammed on the brakes. “Mazie makes asses of us all.”
*** *** ***
“You know,” began Big John after they had exited the truck and were making their way to the medical facility’s reception area, “the more I think about this All-Bureaucracy doula thing, the less I think you’re wasting your time.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Susan.
“At least in the legal system, laws are written by humans. And they’re judged by humans and enforced by humans. But Mazie’s largely automated. What d’ya reckon?… Maybe a human actually gets involved in less than ten percent of bureaucratic activities?”
Susan shrugged. “Something like that, I suppose.” She turned to Cardiff. “Mister Cardiff, before we enter the building, I need you to take a few minutes and make sure you’re going in there with the right mindset.”
“More brain-lasers?” he asked nervously.
“What? No, no. Just a little meditation.”
Cardiff sighed. “Worse.”
“Here, take this,” Susan ordered, handing him an index-card-sized piece of paper. “Now, read each line aloud. And really mean it when you say it.”
Mr. Cardiff looked down at the card. “Aw, you gotta be kidding me.”
“Please, Mister Cardiff. And remember… you have to mean it.”
Mr. Cardiff took a deep breath and began reading.
“Number one, the gatekeeper is God… Number two, I will state only what the gatekeeper needs to hear, not what I want to say.”
“A little more conviction, please, Mister Cardiff,” coached Susan.
“Number three!” began Cardiff, substituting increased volume for conviction. “I will be patient in line and patient when placed on hold… Number four, I will make all menu choices to the best of my ability… Number five, I will fill out all forms completely and without resentment.” He lowered the card. “Ah, come on! That’s asking too much!”
“Just one more,” said Susan, raising Cardiff’s hand back toward his face.
Cardiff rolled his eyes. “Number six… I will always, no matter how frustrated or disappointed, remain calm, cool, and polite when dealing with the All-Bureaucracy.”
“Very good,” said Susan. “Now flip the card over.”
Reluctantly, Mister Cardiff turned over the card.
“This is just silly,” he said.
“Read it, Mister Cardiff.”
“And remember,” read Cardiff, “the system only allows smooth pebbles in its marble pit. If you want to play, you must be the smooth pebble.”
“Who writes this stuff?” asked Big John.
“Excellent,” said Susan. “Now. Do you feel empowered and ready to take on the system?”
“Not at all.”
“Your humility will be your shield,” said Susan, opening the door to the facility. “Let’s go!”
*** *** ***
At the automated reception desk, Susan helped Cardiff navigate a series of menus and forms on a touchscreen display. After a half-hour of filling in blanks, followed by another half-hour of sitting in the waiting room, Susan’s phone finally beeped.
“Oh! They’re ready for you, Mister Cardiff,” she said, jumping up. “This way.” She began down one of the corridors leading away from the reception area. Her phone sounded an alarm. She turned abruptly and began down another corridor. “I mean, this way.”
After all the hours of preparatory effort, paperwork, waiting, and time spent with nurses, Mr. Cardiff spent only about five minutes with the actual doctor. The doctor, not having any idea what was wrong with him, gave him a prescription for the pain and her approval to make another appointment, this time with a specialist.
Big John volunteered to stay behind and deal with the details of the next appointment so Susan could give Mr. Cardiff a ride to the pharmacy.
He handed her the keys to his truck. “Be gentle with her.”
“Please! I’ve seen your driving,” said Susan. “She’s better off with me.”
*** *** ***
As Cardiff buckled up for the ride, Susan readjusted the seat so she could see over the steering wheel. She then drove the truck to the automated parking gate at the edge of the lot and fed the parking stub into the machine. The machine read the stub and informed her that she owed one thousand dollars.
“There’s been some mistake,” Susan told the machine. “Please read the stub again.”
“One thousand… dollars and… zero… cents,” said the machine in its irritating, robotic voice.
Susan pressed a few buttons on the machine to no avail. A car behind her honked.
“Screw it,” she said, spinning the truck around dangerously close to a short yellow pylon and nearly ramming the line of cars beside her. “We’ll go to another gate.”
“Be the smooth pebble,” advised Mr. Cardiff.
Susan glared at him but said nothing.
When they arrived at the next gate, she made even less progress then before as, now, she no longer had the parking stub. The gate remained stubbornly lowered.
In frustration, she reached out and bonked the top of the ticket reader with the side of a small fist.
“Do not handle the ticket reader roughly,” ordered the machine. It’s voice was the same, irritatingly inhuman voice emitted at the first gate. “Please exit the queue.”
“I’m trying to exit the queue! But you won’t let me!”
“You’re not being the smooth pebble,” said Mr. Cardiff.
“Stuff the smooth pebble!” shouted Susan.
Cardiff pressed his lips together and looked out his door’s window. Birds were flying freely from tree to tree across the street.
Susan got out of the truck and attempted to lift the gate by hand.
“Please do not attempt to lift the lot gate manually,” said a commanding, female voice.
Susan—sweaty now, her blond hair frazzling—leaned up from the gate and looked toward the source of the new, more human-sounding voice. It had come from a nearby speaker at the top of a tall pole. She began toward it.
“Mazie?” she called up from the bottom of the pole. “Is that you, Mazie? It’s me, Susan.”
“The proper authorities have been alerted to your criminal behavior,” responded the voice smoothly.
“Criminal behavior? Your machine said I owed a thousand dollars for a few hours parking!”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” said the disembodied voice.
“You should be helping me, not threatening me!” yelled Susan. “Whose side are you on?”
“You are entitled to an All-Bureaucracy doula. If you cannot afford an All-Bureaucracy doula, one will be appointed for you.”
Susan heard sirens approaching. She ran back to the truck and leapt into the cab.
“You forgot,” said Cardiff. “The Gatekeeper is god.”
“Buckle up,” ordered Susan.
“I’m already—”
Cardiff’s head was thrown back against his seat as the truck jolted forward and began racing through the parking area, picking up speed. He covered his face with his hands, anticipating a lot of flying glass in his near future. Peering through his fingers, he watched helplessly as the first gate raced toward them.
“Who said dealing with bureaucracy can’t be fun?” demanded Susan with a gleam in her eye and a maniacal smile upon her lips.
They burst through the lot’s gate, splinters flying in all directions, and hit the road, tires squealing. In the rearview camera, Susan saw Big John standing in the parking lot, arms spread wide, his eyes wide with disbelief and confusion.
“Thank you and have a nice — Thank you have a nice — ” the machine at the broken gate began repeating.
Zephyr Dorsey 